Stewball

Stewball, he was a good horse and he held a high head
And the hair on his foretop was as fine as silk thread.

His bridle was silver, his mane, it was gold
And the worth of his saddle has never been told.

Oh, the fairgrounds were crowded and stewball was there
But the betting was heavy on the iron gray mare.

Come all of you gamblers, from near and from far,
Don’t bet your gold dollars on the iron gray mare.

Most likely she’ll stumble, most likely she’ll fall
But you never will lose boys, on my noble stewball

As they were a-riding, about hallway around,
The gray mare, she stumbled and fell to the ground.

And way out yonder, ahead of them all
Come a dancin’ and a prancin’, my noble stewball.

Stewball, he was a good horse, and he held a high head
And the hair on his foretop was as fine as silk thread.