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.

Courtesy of the 3-17th Cavalry, Ft. Drum, N.Y.