| There is a house in New Orleans, |
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They call the Rising Sun, |
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And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, |
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And God, I know I'm one. , |
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She sewed my new blue jeans. |
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My father was a gambling man, |
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And the only thing a gambler needs, |
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Is a suitcase and a trunk, |
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And the only time he's satisfied, |
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Is when he's all a-drunk. , |
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I've got one foot on the platform, |
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The other foot on the train. |
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I'm going back to New Orleans, |
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To wear the ball and chain. , |
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So mothers, tell your children, |
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Not to do what I have done. |
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Spend your life in sin and misery, |
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In the House of the Rising Sun. , |
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There is a house in New Orleans |
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They call the Rising Sun. |
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It's been the ruin of many a poor girl, |
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If I had listened what Mamma said, |
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I'd 'a' been at home today. |
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Being so young and foolish, poor boy, |
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let a rambler lead me astray. |
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never do like I have done |
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to shun that house in New Orleans |
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they call the Rising Sun. |
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My mother she's a tailor; |
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she sold those new blue jeans. |
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My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord, |
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drinks down in New Orleans. |
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The only thing a drunkard needs |
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is a suitcase and a trunk. |
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The only time he's satisfied |
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Fills his glasses to the brim, |
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only pleasure he gets out of life |
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is hoboin' from town to town. |
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One foot is on the platform |
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and the other one on the train. |
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I'm going back to New Orleans |
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to wear that ball and chain. |
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Going back to New Orleans, |
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Going back to spend the rest of my days |
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