— Stewball —
Sung by Joan Baez

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

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

He was ridden in England
Was ridden 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 the little gray mare

She's liable to stumble
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 gray mare

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

'Cause I bet on the gray mare
And some on the bay
Had I bet on old Stewball
I'd be a rich man today

As they were riding
'Bout halfway around
That gray mare she stumbled
And fell on the ground

And away out yonder
Ahead of them all
came a-prancing and dancing
My noble Stewball

Oh, the gray mare was a racehorse
And her heart it was gold
She lies dead on the infield
But her story's been told