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Stewball was a good horse, he wore his head high, |
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and the mane on his foretop, was fine as silk thread. |
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I rode him in England, I rode him in Spain, |
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and I never did lose, boys, I always did gain. |
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So come all you gamblers, wherever you are, |
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and don't bet your money on that little grey mare. |
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Most likely she'll stumble, most likely she'll fall, |
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but never you'll lose, boys, on my noble Stewball. |
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As they were a-riding, 'bout halfway round, |
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that grey mare she stumbled, and fell on the ground. |
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And way out yonder, ahead of them all, |
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came a-prancing and a-dancing, my noble Stewball. |
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Stewball was a race horse, and by the day he was mine, |
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he never drank water, he always drank wine. |
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(Joan Baez) |
