[Intro]
It was in the year of '39 and they sky was full of lead
Hitler was heading for Poland and Paddy for Holyhead,
Go on ye pincher laddies and you long distance men,
Don't ever work for McAlpine, Wimpey or John Laine.
For you'll stand behind the mixer till your skin is turned to tan,
And they'll say, "Good on ya Paddy" with your boat fare in your hands,
Ah, the craic was good in Cricklewood, and they wouldn't to leavŠµ the Crown,
There were glasses flying and biddies crying, and Paddy was going to town.
Oh mother dear, I'm over here, and I never will come back,
What keeps me here is a rake of beer, the quare ones and the craic,
Well I come from County Kerry, it's the land of eggs and bacon,
And if you think I'll eat you fish and chips, boy Jesus you mistaken.
[Verse]
Was down the glen came McAlpine's men with their shovels slung behind them,
Was in the pub that they drank the sub and up 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 upon the Isle of Grain,
What Horseface Toole, ye I knew the rule, no money if you stop for rain,
McAlpine's God was a well filled hod your shoulders cut to bits and seared,
And woe to he who would look for tea with McAlpine's fusiliers.
I remember the day that the Bear O'Shea fell into a concrete stairs,
What 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 rang unto my ears,
If the going gets rough, ah, you must be tough with McAlpine's fusiliers.
I've worked till the sweat nearly had me bet with Russian, Czechs and Poles,
The shuddering jams are up in hydro dams or underneath the Thames in a hole,
I grafted hard and I've marked me cards with many a ganger's fist across my ear,
If you pride your life, don't you join by Christ with McAlpine's fusiliers.