McAlpine's Fusiliers
by Dominic Behan

(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
Until your skin is turned to tan
And they'll say, Good on you, Paddy
With your boat-fare in your hand.

Oh, the craic was good in Cricklewood
And they wouldn't leave the Crown

With glasses flying and Biddys 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
It was in the pub that they drank their sub
Or down in the spike you'll find them
We sweated blood and we washed down mud
With quarts and pints of beer
But now we're on the road again with McAlpine's Fusiliers
 

I stripped to the skin with Darky Finn
Way down upon the Isle of Grain,
With Horseface Toole I learned the rule
No money if you stop for rain.
For McAlpine's god is a well filled hod
Your shoulders cut to bits and seared
And woe to he who looks 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,
Well it wasn't what the rich call prayers
"I'm a navvy short," was his one retort
That reached unto my ears,
When the going is rough, well you must be tough, with McAlpine's
Fusiliers.
 

I've worked till 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 grafted hard and I got me cards
and many a ganger's fist across me ears
If you pride your life, don't join, by Christ, with McAlpine's Fusiliers