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 Fiddlers'
Green.
Marching past, straight
through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of
Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers'
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 Fiddlers'
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 Fiddlers' Green.
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