'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.
For You'll stand behind a mixer
And your skin is turned to tan
And they'll say 'Good on you Paddy'
With your boat-fare in your hand
The craic was good in Cricklewood
And they wouldn't leave the Crown
With glasses flying and Biddy's crying
Sure 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
By Jeasus you're mistakin'