Halfway down the trail
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 Dismount at Fiddlers’ Green. Though some go curving down
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.
I earned my “ sprurs” Mar 18 1989.
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 Dismount at Fiddlers’ Green. Though some go curving down
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.
I earned my “ sprurs” Mar 18 1989.
