Riding in the Trunk

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 Fiddler’s 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 man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostilescome to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddler’s Green