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
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
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen dismount at Fiddlers' Green

Though some go curving down that 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 Fiddlers' Green
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