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, 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 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 Beneath a saber keen, Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee You stop the 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.

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