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!