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?

[Instrumental]

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"