Joan Baez - Stewball

Stewball was a race horse
He wore a high head
And the mane on his foretop
Was fine as silk thread

Yeah, his mane it was silver
And his bridle was gold
And the worth of his sadle
Has never been told

He was riddin in England
Was riddin in Spain
And he never did lose, boys
He always did gain

So come all you gamblers
Wherever you are
And don’t place your money
On that little grey mare

She’s liable to strumble
She’s likely to fall
But you never will lose, boys
On my noble Stewball

Ah the fairgrounds were crowded
And Stewball was there
But the betting was heavy
On the little grey mare

Ah the hoot owl she hollered
And the turtle dove moaned
I’m a poor boy in trauble
And a long ways from home

Cause I bet on the gray mare
And some on the bay
If I’d bet on ol’ Stewball
I’d be a rich man today

As they were a-riding
‘Bout halfway around
That gray mare she stumbled
Anf fell on the ground

And way out yonder
Ahead of them all
Came a-prancing and dancing
My noble Stewball