As down the glen came McAlpine's Men,
With their shovels slung behind them.
'Twas in the pub that they drank their sup
Or down in the spike you will 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 fusileers.
I stripped to the skin with Darky Finn
Down upon the Isle of Grain.
With Horseface Toole, I learned the rule,
No money if you stop for the rain.
For McAlpine's god is a well-filled hod
With your shoulders cut to bits and seared,
And woe to he who looks for tea,
With McAlpine's fusileers.
I remember the day that Bear O'Shea
Fell into a concrete stair.
What Horseface said when he saw him dead,
Well, it wasn't what the rich call prayer.
"I'm a navvy short!" was his one retort
That reached unto my ears.
When the going is rough, well, you must be tough
With McAlpine's fusileers.
I've worked till the sweat near had me beat
With Russian, Czech and Pole,
At 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 fusileers.
With their shovels slung behind them.
'Twas in the pub that they drank their sup
Or down in the spike you will 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 fusileers.
I stripped to the skin with Darky Finn
Down upon the Isle of Grain.
With Horseface Toole, I learned the rule,
No money if you stop for the rain.
For McAlpine's god is a well-filled hod
With your shoulders cut to bits and seared,
And woe to he who looks for tea,
With McAlpine's fusileers.
I remember the day that Bear O'Shea
Fell into a concrete stair.
What Horseface said when he saw him dead,
Well, it wasn't what the rich call prayer.
"I'm a navvy short!" was his one retort
That reached unto my ears.
When the going is rough, well, you must be tough
With McAlpine's fusileers.
I've worked till the sweat near had me beat
With Russian, Czech and Pole,
At 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 fusileers.
inviata da Bartleby - 12/5/2011 - 10:06
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Nel live album “Finnegan Wakes” del 1966.
Attribuita a Dominic Behan ma in realtà probabilmente scritta anni prima da tal Martin Henry di Rooskey, nella contea irlandese di Roscommon.
Vi si raccontano le difficili condizioni di lavoro degli irlandesi immigrati in Inghilterra e impiegati come mano d’opera a basso costo nei cantieri della famosa ditta di costruzioni Sir Robert McAlpine Ltd, oggi una delle più grandi compagnie mondiali nel settore della progettazione e costruzione di grandi opere specialmente nel settore industriale, energetico e della difesa.
Sir Robert McAlpine, detto “Concrete Bob”, fondò la sua azienda nel 1869 e questa, soprattutto a partire dagli anni 30, divenne un colosso economico fondato sul sudore e sul sangue degli immigrati irlandesi sfruttati e mal pagati.