Casey at the Bat
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 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 -
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 lulu and the latter was a cake;
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 despis-ed, tore the cover off the
ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men 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 its 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.
"Phin"
Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
©
