In a dreary Yankee prison where a revel 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 sould pass through the southland?
Will my soul pass through the Southland, through old Virginia grand
Will i see the hills of Georgia and the green fields of Alabam?
Will i see that little churchhouse, where i pledged my heart and hand
Oh Parson, tell me quickly, will my soul pass thorugh the Southland?
Was for loving dear old Dixie, in this dreary cell I lie
Was for loving dear old Dixie, in this northern state i die.
Will you see my littl daughter, wil you make her understand
Oh Parson, tell my quickly, will my soul pass through the Southland?
Then the Rebel soldier died.