There is a house in New
Orleans
They call the Rising
Sun.
It's been the ruin of
many a poor girl,
and me, O God, for one.
If I had listened what
Mamma said,
I'd 'a' been at home
today.
Being so young and
foolish, poor boy,
let a rambler lead me
astray.
Go tell my baby sister
never do like I have
done
to shun that house in
New Orleans
they call the Rising
Sun.
My mother she's a
tailor;
she sewed my new blue
jeans.
My sweetheart, he's a
drunkard, Lord, Lord,
drinks down in New
Orleans.
The only thing a
drunkard needs
is a suitcase and a
trunk.
The only time he's
satisfied
is when he's out on a
drunk.
Fills his glasses to
the brim,
passes them around
only pleasure he gets
out of life
is hoboin' from town to
town.
One foot is on the
platform
and the other one on
the train.
I'm going back to New
Orleans
to wear that ball and
chain.
Going back to New
Orleans,
my race is almost run.
Going back to spend the
rest of my days
beneath that Rising
Sun.
