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 Through the old Virginia grants Will I see the hills of Georgia And the green fields of Alabam? Will I see there little church house 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 me quickly Will my soul pass through the Southland? 
Then the rebel soldier died 
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