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.