Stewball

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.