Born on the Hudson twenty-two years gone. Bred and raised in the City. From my daddy's knee I learned the Union songs. But Grandma sang lullabies of Dixie. And though the Northern winter fills my heart with joy. Oh it's a Southern sun that shines down. On this Yankee boy. Mama dreamed of Paris nights. And boatin' on the Seine. She said we're gonna make it there too. Soon as Papa comes home again. And she'd speak to me in broken french. Dressed like a painting of Lautrec's. In the night she'd clutch me to her breast. And say we'll make it outta here yet. And though Parisian women. Strut so fine down the Eiffel mall. It's a Southern one I sing my songs for. Well with the local bunch of do-good boys. And an old man from the West. We crossed the land in the caravan. Yes we traveled with the best. With circus acts and vaudeville hacks. And the Mississippi Delta Queen. She told me the news and sold me her blues. In an alley in New Orleans. And though the Western plains are still stained. With the blood of great cowboys. It's a Southern sun. That shine down on this Yankee boy.