| Stewball was a good horse, he wore his head high, | |
| and the mane on his foretop, was fine as silk thread. | |
| I rode him in England, I rode him in Spain, | |
| and I never did lose, boys, I always did gain. | |
| So come all you gamblers, wherever you are, | |
| and don't bet your money on that little grey mare. | |
| Most likely she'll stumble, most likely she'll fall, | |
| but never you'll lose, boys, on my noble Stewball. | |
| 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 a-dancing, my noble Stewball. | |
| Stewball was a race horse, and by the day he was mine, | |
| he never drank water, he always drank wine. | |
| (Joan Baez) |
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