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.

	D                                     G                 -            D     --  A   --    D        
V 1:	As down the glen came McAlpines men with their shovels slung behind them
	               D --      --           -         ---G              -               D     ---    G
	'Twas in the pub that they drank their sub and out in the spike you'll find them 
	             D       -  -             ---G                   -              D         G
	They sweated blood and they washed down mud with pints and quarts of beer
	        D        -         ---G                         -    -               D  -     A  -  D
	And now we're on the road again with McAlpine's Fusiliers

V 2:	I stripped to the skin with Darkie Finn way down upon the Isle of Grain
	With Horse Face O'Toole, we knew the rule, no money if you stopped for rain.
	McAlpine's God was a well filled hod, your shoulders cut to bits and seared,
	And woe to he who looked for tea with McAlpine's Fusiliers

V 3:	I remeber the day that Bear O'Shea fell into a concrete stairs.
	What Horse Face said when he saw him dead it wasn't what the rich called prayers.
	I'm a navvy short was the one retort that reached unto my ears
	When the going's rough then you must be tough with McAlpine's Fusiliers

V 4:	I've worked 'til the sweat nearly had me bet, with Russian, Czech and Pole.
	On shuddering jams up the hydro dams or underneath the Thames in a hole.
	I've grabbed it hard and I've got niggard and many a ganger's fist across me ears.
	If you pride your life won't your join by christ, with McAlpine's Fusiliers
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