House Of The Rising Sun

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 sold those 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 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.