John McCullagh November 30, 2005
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Have you ever met ‘the Micks’, me lads, when wandering round the town,
They are the crowd of Irishmen, whose fame is all renown.
There’s Alexander, Mungo Park and Michael Vernon too,
But these names I state to you, me lads, are merely just a few.


Now once you join the Irish Guards, then you’re a Mick for life,
They’ll stand by you through thick and thin, through every kind of strife
And should you ever be in a fight, with your back against the door,
Just holler ‘UP THE MICKS’, me lads, for that’s their call for war.


They’ve been in many battles, and you’ll find they always win,
For you’ll never meet a Mick, me lads, who says ‘Well, I’ll give in!’
They’ll do or die, they’re trained that way, they think the life is grand,
And heaven help old England, if they all cOme to Ireland.


Each one of you went through the mill, your life was made real hard,
But every single one of you, became an Irish Guard.
Those days are gone ’tis sad to say, but memories fondly cling,
And the Devil who chased the most of you, was known as Pokey Flynn.


The pride he took in his uniform, they still speak of today,
And if your cap peak was a fraction out, by gum, there was hell to pay,
I’ll make a Mick of you, me lad, or die in the attempt,
There’s many often wished he would, tho’ it really was not meant.


As time goes by, old Micks pass on, but their names are ne’er forgot,
For they helped to rewrite history, tho’ it may not be a lot,
And as Peter greets them at the gates, with a smile upon his lips,
The Angels all in chorous sing,  ‘WELCOME!  UP THE MICKS’.

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