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, through Old Virginia grand?
Will I see the hills of Georgia, and the green fields of Alabam?
Will I see the 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.
