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Oh, Stewball was a racehorse, |
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And I wish he were mine. |
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He never drank water, |
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He always drank wine. |
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His bridal was silver, |
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and his mane, it was gold, |
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And the work on his saddle |
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Peter Paul And Mary |
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has never been tooled. |
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Oh, the fairgrounds were crowded, |
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And Stewball was there |
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But the betting was heavy |
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on the bay and the mare. |
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And a-way up yonder, |
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Ahead of them all |
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Came a-dancin' and a-prancin' |
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My noble stewball. |
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Oh, the hoot owl, she hollered |
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And the turtle dove moaned |
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Of a poor boy in trouble |
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on a long way from home. |
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I bet on the gray mare, |
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And I bet on the bay. |
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If I had bet on ol' Stewball, |
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I'd be a free man today. |
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Oh, Stewball was a racehorse, |
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And I wish he were mine. |
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He never drank water, |
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He always drank wine. |
