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