“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day,
\nthe score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
\nAnd then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
\na sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.<\/p>\n
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. the rest
\nclung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
\nthey thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that-
\nthey’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.<\/p>\n
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
\nand the former was a lulu and the latter was a fake,
\nso upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
\nfor there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.<\/p>\n
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
\nand Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
\nand when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
\nthere was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a=hugging third.<\/p>\n
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
\nit rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
\nit knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
\nfor Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.<\/p>\n
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
\nthere was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
\nand when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
\nno stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.<\/p>\n
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
\nfive thousand tongues applauded when he rubbed them on his shirt.
\nThen while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
\ndefiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.<\/p>\n
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
\nand Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
\nClose by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
\n“That ain’t my style,” said Casey, “Strike one,” the umpire said.<\/p>\n
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
\nlike the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
\n“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand,
\nand it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.<\/p>\n
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
\nhe stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
\nhe signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
\nbut Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said: “Strike two.”<\/p>\n
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
\nbut one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
\nThey saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
\nand they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.<\/p>\n
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
\nhe pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
\nAnd now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
\nand now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.<\/p>\n
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
\nthe band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
\nand somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
\nbut there is no joy in Mudville— mighty Casey has struck out.”
\n Ernest Thayer.
\nIslander<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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