In honor of him & his Dad, here it is:
Fiddler’s Green
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 Fiddle’s Green.
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Marching past, straight through to hell,
The Infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but shades of Cavalryman
Dismount at Fiddler’s Green
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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 Fiddler’s Green.
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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 a pistol to your head
And go to Fiddler’s Green.