by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

    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

    Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast；

    They thought， "If only Casey could but get a whack¹ 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；

    So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy² 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，

    There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

    Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell；

    It rumbled³ through the valley， it rattled⁴ in the dell；

    It pounded on the mountain and recoiled⁵ upon the flat，

    For Casey， mighty⁶ Casey， was advancing to the bat.

    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 doffed⁷ 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；

    Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt；

    Then while the writhing⁸ pitcher⁹ ground the ball into his hip¹⁰，

    Defiance¹¹ flashed in Casey's eye， a sneer¹² curled Casey's lip.

    And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air，

    And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty¹³ grandeur¹⁴ there.

    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 muffled¹⁵ roar，

    Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore；

    "Kill him！ Kill the umpire！" shouted someone on the stand；

    And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

    With a smile of Christian¹⁶ charity great Casey's visage shone；

    He stilled the rising tumult¹⁷； 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！"

    "Fraud！" cried the maddened thousands， and echo answered "Fraud！"

    But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed¹⁸.

    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 clenched¹⁹ in hate，

    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；

    And somewhere men are laughing， and somewhere children shout，

    But there is no joy in Mudville——mighty Casey has struck out.

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