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Stewball was a good horse,
and held a high head,
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 of you gamblers,
from near and from far,
don't bet your gold dollar
on that little gray mare.

Most likely she'll stumble,
most likely she'll fall,
but you never will lose on
my noble Stewball.

Sit tight in your saddle,
let slack on your rein,
and you never will lose boys,
you always will gain.

As they were riding
'bout half way 'round,
that gray mare she stumbled
and fell to the ground.

And away out yonder,
ahead of them all,
came dancing and prancing
my noble Stewball.

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