The Legend of the Rebel Soldier

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 Alabam

Will I see that little churchhouse where I pledged my heart and hand

Oh Parson, tell me quickly: will my soul pass through 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 little daughter, will you make her understand

Oh Parson, tell my 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

"Father, grant this soldier's wishes: may his soul pass through the Southland"