Stewball

He was called Stewball, a white horse
He was my idol, and I was ten years old
Our poor father, to buy this purebred
Had put in the deal his last penny
He had in mind to make him a great champion
To settle our debts and pay the house
And believed in his luck
He entered Stewball on a beautiful Sunday
In the grand prize of St. Paul
'I know,' said my father, 'that Stewball will win'
But after the river, Stewball fell
When the vet, with one blow, put him down
I saw my father cry for the first time
He was called Stewball, a white horse
He was my idol, and I was ten years old