The House Of The Rising Sun
Gl. am. Folk song

There is a house in New Orleans,
you call the Rising Sun.
It has been the ruin of many a poor soul,
and me, oh God, I'm one.

There is a house in New Orleans,
they call the Rising Sun.
It has been the ruin of many a poor girl
and me, oh God, I'm one.

If I'd have a-listened to what mamma said
I'd a-been at home today;
being so young and foolish, poor girl,
I let a gambler lead me astray.

My mother is a tailor,
she sews those new blue jeans;
my sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord,
drinks down in New Orleans.

The only thing that a drunkard needs
is a suitcase and a trunk;
the only time he's satisfied
is when he's on a drunk.

He fills his glasses to the brim,
and passes them around,
the only leasure that he gets out of life
is a-hoboing from town to town.

Go tell my baby sister
never do what I have done,
but shun that house in New Orleans
they call that Rising Sun.

It's one foot on the platform,
one foot on the train;
I'm going back to New Orleans
to wear that ball and chain.

I'm going back to New Orleans.
My time is almost done.
I'm going there to spend my days
beneath that Rising Sun.


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