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Casey at the Bat

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<h2>CASEY AT THE BAT</h2> <h3>BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER</h3> <div class="stanza"> It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play; And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. </div> <div class="stanza"> A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast; For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that They'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat. </div> <div class="stanza"> But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake, But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. </div> <div class="stanza"> But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much-despisèd Blaikie tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third! </div> <div class="stanza"> Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell, It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. </div> <div class="stanza"> There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. </div> <div class="stanza"> And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped: "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 some one in the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike two." </div> <div class="stanza"> "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!" But the 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched with 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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