| Stewball was a good horse
|
| And he held a high head
|
| And the mane on his foretop
|
| Was fine as silk thread
|
| I rode him in England
|
| And I rode him in Spain
|
| And I never did lose, boys
|
| I always did gain
|
| So come all you gamblers
|
| From near and from far
|
| Don’t bet your gold dollar
|
| On that little grey mare
|
| Most likely she will stumble
|
| Most likely she’ll fall
|
| But you never will lose
|
| On my noble Stewball
|
| Sit tight on your saddle
|
| Let slack on your rein
|
| And you never will lose boys
|
| You always will gain
|
| As they were a-riding
|
| 'Bout halfway 'round
|
| That grey mare she stumbled
|
| And fell to the ground
|
| And 'way out yonder
|
| Ahead of them all
|
| Came dancin' and prancin'
|
| My noble Stewball
|
| Stewball was a good horse
|
| And he held a high head
|
| And the mane on his foretop
|
| Was fine as silk thread
|
| I rode him in England
|
| And I rode him in Spain
|
| And I never did lose, boys
|
| I always did gain |