There is a house down in New Orleans They call the Rising SunAnd it's been the ruin of a many poor boy And me, oh God, for oneThen fill the glasses to the brim Let the drinks go merrily aroundAnd we'll drink to the health of a rounder poor boy Who goes from town to townThe only thing that a rounder needs Is his suitcase and a trunkAnd the only time he's satisfied Is when he's on a drunkNow boys, don't believe what a girl tells you Though her eyes be blue or brownUnless she's on some scaffold high Saying, boys, I can't come downGo tell my youngest brother Not to do the things I've doneBut to shun that house down in New Orleans They call the Rising SunI'm going back, back to New Orleans For my race is nearly runI'm going to spend the rest of my wicked life Beneath that Rising Sun