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 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 fiddler's green,
And so when horse and man go down beneath a Sabre keen,
Or in a roaring char