O, as down the glen came McAlpine's men With their shovels slung behind them, 'Twas in the pub they drink their sub And out in the spike you'll find them; 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 Fusiliers.
I stripped to the skin with Darky Finn Way down upon the Isle of Grain; With Horse-Face Toole, then I knew the rule: No money if you stopped for rain. Well, 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.
I remember the day that the Bear O'Shea Fell into a concrete stairs; What Horse-Face said when he saw him dead, Well, it wasn't what the rich call prayers. "I'm a navvy short" was the 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 has me beat With Russian, Czech and Pole On 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.