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.
(Joan Baez)
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