There is a house down in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And many poor boy to distrust she has gone
And me, oh God, for one
Just fill the glasses up to the brim
Let the drinks go merrily around
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