Old Stewball was a racehorse, And I wish he were mine.

His bridle was silver, And his mane it was gold,

Oh the fairgrounds were crowded, And Stewball was there

As they were approaching, About half way around,

And away out yonder, Ahead of them all,

I bet on the gray mare, And I bet on the bay.

He never drank water, He only drank wine.

And the worth of his saddle, Has never been told.

But the betting was heavy, On the bay and the mare.

The gray mare she stumbled, and fell to the ground.

Came a-prancing and a-dancing, My noble Stewball.

If I'd bet on old Stewball, I'd be a free man today.