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As down the glen came McAlpine's men |
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With their shovels slung behind them |
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'Twas in the pub they drank the sub |
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And up in the spike you'll find them |
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They sweated blood and they washed down mud |
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With pints and quarts of beer |
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And now we're on the road again |
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With McAlpine's fusiliers |
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I stripped to the skin with Darky Flynn |
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Way down upon the Isle of Grain |
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With the Horseface Toole then I knew the rule |
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No money if you stop for rain |
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McAlpine's God was a well filled hod |
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Your shoulders cut to bits and seared |
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And woe to he who to looks for tea |
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With McAlpine's fusiliers |
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I remember the day that the Bear O'Shea |
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Fell into a concrete stairs |
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What the Horseface said, when he saw him dead |
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Well, it wasn't what the rich call prayers |
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I'm a navvy short was his one retort |
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That reached unto my ears |
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When the going is rough, well you must be tough |
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With McAlpine's fusiliers |
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I've worked till the sweat it has had me bet |
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With Russian, Czech and Pole |
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On shuddering jams up in the hydro dams |
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Or underneath the Thames in a hole |
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I grafted hard and I've got me cards |
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And many a ganger's fist across me ears |
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If you pride your life, don't join by Christ |
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With McAlpine's fusiliers |
