The Dubliners - McAlpine's Fusiliers

(Spoken:)

'Twas in the year of 'thirty-nine

When the sky was full of lead

When Hitler was heading for Poland

And Paddy, for Holyhead

Come all you pincher laddies

And you long-distance men

Don't ever work for McAlpine

For Wimpey, or John Laing

You'll stand behind a mixer

And your skin is turned to tan

And they'll say, Good on you, Paddy

With your boat-fare in your hand

The craic was good in Cricklewood

And they wouldn't leave the Crown

With glasses flying and Biddy's crying

'Cause Paddy was going to town

Oh mother dear, I'm over here

And I'm never coming back

What keeps me here is the reek o' beer

The ladies and the craic

I come from county Kerry

The land of eggs and bacon

And if you think I'll eat your fish 'n' chips

Oh dear then you're mistaken

As down the glen came McAlpine's men

With their shovels slung behind them

'Twas in the pub they drank the sub

And out in the spike you'll find them

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 fusiliers

I stripped to the skin with the Darky Finn

Way down on the Isle of Grain

With the Horseface Toole I knew the rule

No money if you stopped for rain

McAlpine's god is a well-filled hod

Your shoulders cut to bits and seared

And woe to he went to look for tea

With McAlpine's fusiliers

I remember the day that the Bear O'Shea

Fell into a concrete stairs

What the Horseface said when he saw him dead

It wasn't what the rich call prayers

I'm a navvy short, was the one retort

That reached unto my ears

When the going is rough you must be tough

With McAlpine's fusiliers

I've worked till the sweat it has had me beat

With Russian, Czech, and Pole

On shuttering jams up in the hydro-dams

Or underneath the Thames in a hole

I've grafted hard and I've got my cards

And many a ganger's fist across my ears

If you pride your life don't join, by Christ!

With McAlpine's fusiliers