The Dying Fettler

A strapping young fettler lay dying,
With a shovel supporting his head,
The ganger and crew round him crying,
And he let go his pick handle and said....

Chorus:
Wrap me up in a tent or a fly, boys,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the trolley and trains won’t molest me,
To show there’s a navvy below.

There’s tea in the battered billy-can,
Place the dog spike out in a row,
And we’ll spike to the next merry meeting,
To show there’s a navvy below.

Hark! There’s the wail of a trolley,
Far, far away it seems clear,
It sounds like the inspector is coming
And hopes to see all of us here.

So, back to your shovels, my boy-lads,
And bed your backs with a will,
This inspector has no time of judgment,
But there’ll be a navvy who will.