This is one of the poems I am memorizeing right now.
Enjoy!
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day;
Enjoy!
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 sickly silence fell upon the patrons
of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep
despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs
eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get
but a whack at that -
They'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 pudding and the
latter was a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim
melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of
Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the
wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the
cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they
saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and
Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there
rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it
rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and
recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty 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 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.
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 gleamed 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.
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;
And it's likely they'd a-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 spheroid 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 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;
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 favored 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.
.JPG)
