There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun.
It's been the ruin of many a poor girl,
And me, O God, for one.
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If I had listened what Mamma
said,
I'd 'a' been at home today.
Being so young and foolish, poor boy,
Let a rambler lead me astray.
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Go tell my baby sister
Never do like I have done
To shun that house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun.
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My mother she's a tailor;
She sold those new blue jeans.
My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord,
Drinks down in New Orleans.
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The only thing a drunkard needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk.
The only time he's satisfied
Is when he's on a drunk.
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Fills his glasses to the brim,
Passes them around
Only pleasure he gets out of life
Is hoboin' from town to town.
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One foot is on the platform
And the other one on the train.
I'm going back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain.
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Going back to New Orleans,
My race is almost run.
Going back to spend the rest of my days
Beneath that Rising Sun.
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