| F#m | A | E | | Good | evening all my jolly lads, I'm | glad to find you | well, |
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| F#m | E | | If you'll g | ather all around me now the st | ory I will tell, |
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| F#m | A | E | | For I've g | ot a situation and beg | orrah and beg | ob, |
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| F#m | E | F#m | | I can wh | isper all the weekly w | age of n | ineteen bob. |
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| A | A | | 'Tis tw | elve months come October since I l | eft me native home, |
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| F#m | E | | After h | elping the Killarney boys to br | ing the harvest down. |
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| F#m | A | E | | But n | ow I wear the geansai and ar | ound me waist a b | elt. |
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| F#m | E | F#m | | I'm the g | affer of the squad that m | akes the h | ot asphalt. |
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| | | A | A | | | Well, we l | aid it in a hollows and we l | aid it in the flat. |
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| | | F#m | E | | | And if it d | oesn't last forever sure I sw | ear I'll eat me hat, |
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| | | F#m | A | E | | | Well, I've w | andered up and down the world and s | ure I never f | elt |
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| | | F#m | E | F#m | | | any s | urface that was equal t | o the h | ot asphalt. |
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The other night a copper comes and he says to me: "McGuire, |
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Would you kindly let me light me pipe down at your boiler fire?" |
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And he planks himself right down in front, with hobnails up, till late, |
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And says I: "Me decent man, you'd better go and find your bate!" |
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He ups and yells, "I'm down on you I'm up to all yer pranks, |
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Don't I know you for a traitor from the Tipperary ranks?" |
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Boys I hit straight from the shoulder and I gave him such a belt |
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That I knocked him into the boiler full of hot asphalt. |
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Well, we laid it in a hollows ... |
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We quickly dragged him out again and we threw him in the tub, |
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And with soap and warm water we began to rub and scrub, |
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But devil the thing, it hardened and it turned him hard as stone |
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And with every other rub sure you could hear the copper groan. |
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"I'm thinking", says O'Reilly, "that he's lookin' like Ould Nick, |
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And burn me if I am not inclined to claim him with me pick." |
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"Now", says I, "it would be 'asier to boil him till he melts, |
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and to stir him nice and 'asy in the hot asphalt." |
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Well, we laid it in a hollows ... |
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You may talk about yer sailorlads, ballad singers and the rest, |
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Your shoemakers and your tailors but we please the ladies best. |
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The only ones who know the way their flinty hearts to melt |
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are the lads around the boiler making hot asphalt. |
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With rubbing and with scrubbing sure I caught me death of cold, |
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and for scientific purposes me body it was sold, |
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In the Kelvingrove museum me boys, I'm hangin' in me pelt, |
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As a monument to the Irish mixing hot asphalt! |
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Well, we laid it in a hollows ... |
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