There is a house down in New Orleans They call the Rising Sun And many poor boy to distrut she has gone And me, oh God, for one Just fill the glasses to the brim Let the drinks go merrily around And we'll drink to the health of a rounder poor boy Who goes from town to town The only thing that a rounder needs Is a suitcase and a trunk And the only time he's satisfied Is when he's on a drunk Now boys, don't believe what a girl tells you Though her eyes be blue or brown Unless she's on some scaffold high Saying, "Boys, I can't come down" I'm going back, back to New Orleans For my race is nearly run Gonna spend the rest of my wicked life Beneath that Rising Sun