Stewball

(J. Herald, R. Rinzler, B. Yellin)

Stewball was a race horse, he wore a high head,
and the mane on his foretop, was as fine as silk thread.
Yes his mane it was silver and his bridle was gold
And the words on his saddle has never been told

He was ridden in England, was ridden in Spain
And he never did lose, boys, he always did gain.

So come all you gamblers, wherever you are,
And don't place your money on that little grey mare.
She's liable to stumble, she's likely to fall,
but you never you will lose, boys, on my noble Stewball.

All the fair grounds were crowded, and Stewball was there
But the bulling was heavy on the little grey mare

...
I'm a poor boy in trouble and a long way's 'm home

'Cause I bet on a grey mare, and some of the bait
Had I ... Stewball I'd be a rich man today

As they were a-riding, 'bout halfway round,
that grey mare she stumbled, and fell on the ground.
And way out yonder, ahead of them all,
came a-prancing and dancing, my noble Stewball.

That grey mare was a racehorse, her heart it was gold
She lies there on ... field, for her story's been told


* * * from other versions:

Stewball was a race horse, and by the day he was mine,
he never drank water, he always drank wine.