Half way 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 or 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 Fiddler’s Green.

 

Note: Additional remembrances of troopers who've recently passed away are encouraged and will be included here.  Submit.

 

In Memoriam "Jake" January, 2008   Reunited with Lt. Dave Whirty, his donor and soulmate Thank you for your years of service