| The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: | |
| The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play, | |
| And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, | |
| A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. | |
| | |
| A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest | 5 |
| Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast; | |
| They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that— | |
| We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." | |
| | |
| But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, | |
| And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; | 10 |
| So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, | |
| For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. | |
| | |
| But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, | |
| And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball; | |
| And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, | 15 |
| There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. | |
| | |
| Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; | |
| It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; | |
| It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, | |
| For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. | 20 |
| | |
| There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; | |
| There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. | |
| And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, | |
| No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. | |
| | |
| Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; | 25 |
| Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; | |
| Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, | |
| Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. | |
| | |
| And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, | |
| And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. | 30 |
| Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— | |
| That ain't my style, said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said. | |
| | |
| From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, | |
| Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; | |
| Kill him! Kill the umpire! shouted someone on the stand; | 35 |
| And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. | |
| | |
| With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; | |
| He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; | |
| He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew; | |
| But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!" | 40 |
| | |
| Fraud! cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" | |
| But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. | |
| They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, | |
| And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. | |
| | |
| The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, | 45 |
| He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; | |
| And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, | |
| And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. | |
| | |
| Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, | |
| The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; | 50 |
| And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, | |
| But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out. | |
