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 mêlée
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.