McAlpine's Fusileers

'Twas down the glen came McAlpine's men,

with their shovels slung behind them,

ah-'twas in the pub that they drank the sub,

or down in the spike you'll find them,

well they sweated blood and they washed-down mud,

with pints and quarts of beer,

and now we're on the road again,

with McAlpine's Fusileers!

I stripped to the skin with Darkie Finn,

way down upon The Isle of Grain,

with Horse-face Toole,

I learnt the rule:

no money if you stop for rain!

For McAlpines' God is a well-filled hod,

your shoulders cut-to-bits and seared,

and woe to he who went to look for tea!

With McAlpine's Fusileers!

I remember the day that The Bear O'Shea

fell into a concrete stairs,

what Horse-Face said when he saw him dead:

it wasn't what The Rich call prayers!

"I'm a navvy short!" was the one retort,

that fell unto my ears,

when the going is rough then you must be tough!

With McAlpine's Fusileers!

I worked 'til the sweat near had me bet,

with Russian, Czech and Pole,

at shuttering jams up in the hydro-dams,

or underneath The Thames in a hole!

I've grafted hard, and I've got me cards,

and many a gangers' fist across me ears,

so if you pride your life, don't join by Christ

with McAlpines Fusileers!