| As down the glen came McAlpine’s men
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| With their shovels slung behind them
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| 'Twas in the pub they drank the sub
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| And up in the spike you’ll find them
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| They sweated blood and they washed down mud
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| With pints and quarts of beer
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| And now we’re on the road again
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| With McAlpine’s fusiliers
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| I stripped to the skin with Darky Flynn
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| Way down upon the Isle of Grain
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| With the Horseface Toole then I knew the rule
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| No money if you stop for rain
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| McAlpine’s God was a well filled hod
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| Your shoulders cut to bits and seared
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| And woe to he who to looks for tea
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| With McAlpine’s fusiliers
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| I remember the day that the Bear O’Shea
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| Fell into a concrete stairs
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| What the Horseface said, when he saw him dead
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| Well, it wasn’t what the rich call prayers
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| navvy short was the one retort
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| That reached unto my ears
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| When the going is rough, well you must be tough
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| With McAlpine’s fusiliers
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| I’ve worked till the sweat had me bet
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| With Russian, Czech and Pole
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| On shuddering jams up in the hydro dams
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| Or underneath the Thames in a hole
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| I grafted hard and I’ve got me cards
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| And many a ganger’s fist across me ears
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| If you pride your life, don’t join by Christ
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| With McAlpine’s fusiliers |