COME VISIT US
Halfway 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 Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past straight through Hell, the Infantry are seen
Accompanied by the Engineers, Calvary, and Marines
For none but the shades of Artillerymen, dismount at Fiddlers' 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 his friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down, beneath a saber keen
Or on roaring charge of fierce melee, you stop a bullet clean
And the hostiles come to get your scalp and empty your canteen
And put your pistol to your head and go to Fiddlers' Green.