'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!
