||[Mar. 6th, 2009|12:23 pm]
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 Fiddlers' 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 Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To see a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen
And so goes back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in roaring charges of a fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
and the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty you canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green
Tomorrow I will graduate cavalry scout school.