In a dreary Yankee prison
Where a rebel soldier lay
By his side
there stood a preacher Ere his soul should pass away
And he faintly whispered,
Parson,
As he clutched him by the hand
Oh,
Parson,
tell me quickly Will my soul pass through the Southland?
Will my soul pass through the Southland To my old Virginia grand?
Will I see
the
hills of Georgia And the green
fields of Alabama?
Will I see that little church house
Where I pledged my heart and hand?
Oh,
Parson,
tell me quickly
Will my soul
pass through the Southland?
Was for lovin'
dear old Dixie
In this dreary cellar of life
Was for lovin'
dear old Dixie
In this northern
state I've died
Will you see my little daughter?
Will you make her understand?
Oh,
Parson,
tell me quickly Will my soul
pass through the Southland?
With his soul
pure as a lily
And his body sanctified
In that dreary Yankee prison The brave
rebel soldier died
Then the Parson looked up to heaven
And in
blessing raised his hand
To grant
this soldier's wishes
May his soul
pass through the Southland