There is a house down in New Orleans   they call The Rising Sun,   and it's been the ruin of a many poor boy,   and me, oh God, for one.      Then 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."      Go tell my youngest brother   not to do the things I've done,   but to shun that house down in New Orleans   they call The Rising Sun      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.