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 thorugh to Hell,
Though some go curing 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
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