There are a house in New Orleans They call the Rising Sun Where many poor boy to destruction has gone And me, oh God, are one Just fill a glass up to the brim Let the drinks go merrily round We'll drink to the light of a rounder, poor boy Who goes from town to town All in this world does a rambler want Is a suitcase and a trunk The only time he's satisfied Is when he's all a drunk Now boys, don't believe, what a young girl tells you Let her eyes be blue or brown Unless she's on some scaffold height Sayin "Boys, I can't come down" I'm going back to New Orleans For the race is almost run To spend the rest of my weaked life Beneath the Rising Sun