57:65:20:61:72:65:20:73:6c:65:65:70:69:6e:67:2e:20:42:65:20:71:75:69:65:74:20:6f:72:20:77:65:27:6c:6c:20:77:61:6b:65:20:75:70:2e:2e:2e

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,
This eternal resting place is
know 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 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 when man and horse go down
Beneath a sabre keen,
Or on 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.