There is a house down by the streams
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of a many poor boy
And me, oh yeah, for one

They fill the glasses to the brim
Let out that haunting sound.
And they'll drink til morn, with scorn for the worn.
Who goes from town to town

The only thing that an artist needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk
And the only time he's satisfied
Is when he's going punk.

Now boys, don't believe what a girl tells you
Though her eyes be blue or brown
Unless she's on some scaffold high
Saying, "Boys, I can't come down"

Go tell my youngest brethern
Not to do the things I've done
But to shun that house down by the streams
They call the Rising Sun

My race is nearly run.
Gonna spend the rest of my tired life.
Beneath that Rising Sun.