'To live hard, to die hard, and to go to Hell afterwards would be hard indeed.'
Fiddler's Green is a place for sailors and cavalrymen to go when they die. It is not Heaven, for it is a sinful place, one worthy of raucous seamen and soldiers. Instead, Fiddler's Green is a resting place halfway between Life and Hell. It appears to be a green meadow surrounded by trees with a pub or canteen in the middle. Everything a rough man can wish for is there: Beer, rum, tobacco and women. Judging from the name, there should also be music.
Only sailors who died ashore went to Fiddler's Green, as those who perished at sea went to the Locker or directly to sleep with the mermaids. It is said that some of the visitors at Fiddler's Green will try to depart to resume their way to hell. They never succeed, because they always have to come back to refill their can of liquor.
The tradition was popular in the maritime world from the 17th century. The legend became widespread in the US Cavalry sometime in the 19th century. Fiddler's Green has become the name of restaurants and pubs all over the world, as well as streets, farms and even golf courses. It has been dreamed of, spoken of and sung of from people who felt they deserved something after they died; perhaps not Heaven, but not Hell either.
Fiddler's Green
Written 1968 by John Connelly
As I walked by the dockside one evening so fair
To view the salt water and take the sea air
I heard an old fisherman singing a song
Won't you take me home boys, my time isn't long
Chorus:
Wrap me up in me oilskin and jumper
No more on the docks I'll be seen
Just tell me shipmates I'm taking a trip, mates
And I'll see you someday in Fiddler's Green
Now Fiddler's Green is a place I've heard tell
Where fishermen go if they don't go to hell
Where the skies are not cloudy and the dolphins do play
And the cold coast of Greenland is far far away
When you get to the docks and the long trip is through
There's pubs and there's clubs and there's lassies there too
Where the girls are all pretty and the beer it is free
And there's bottles of rum growing from each tree
Now I don't want a harp nor a halo not me
Just give me a ship and a good rolling sea
I'll play me old squeezebox as we sail along
With the wind in the riggins to sing me a song
Fiddler's Green
Published in a 1923 US Cavalry Manual
Half way 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 Engineers,
Artillery and Marines.
For none but shades of the 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 goes back to drink again,
With friends again 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.