There is a house down in New OrleansThey call the rising sunAnd it's been the ruin of a many poor boyAnd me, oh God, for oneThen fill the glasses to the brimLet the drinks goOh, MaryOh, MaryEarly aroundAnd we'll drink to the healthOf a rounder poor boyWho goes from town to townThe only thingThat a rounder needsIs a suitcaseAnd a rounderAnd a drumAnd the only timeHe's satisfiedIs when he's on a drumAnd girls don't ball this manWhat a girl tells youThough her eyesBe dry and paleblue orbrownunlessshe'son somescaffold highsayingboys I can'tcome downgo tellmy youngestbrothernot to dothe thingsI've donebut to shunthat housedown in NewOrleansthey callthe risingsunI'm goingbackback toNew Orleansfor awhilemy raceis nearlyrungonnaspendthe restof mywickedlifebeneaththatrisingsun