Fiddler's Green


Half way down the trail to Hell,
In a shady, meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead Redlegs 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,
Cavalry and Marines,
For none but shades of Artillerymen
Dismount at Fiddler's Green.


Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No Redleg 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 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.
Our most generous apologies for the rampant adulteration of a fine old Cav Scout poem. Nothing but the best to our distant cousins the Scouts!
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