Fiddler’s Green

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green,
Are the Souls of all dead troopers
Camped
Near a good old-time canteen,
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler’s Green

Marching past, straight through to Hell,
The Infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marine,
For none but the shades of
Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddler’s Green

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he’s emptied his canteen,
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddler’s Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your
Scalp
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddler’s Green