(original printing June 3, 1888)
| 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 but get 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 later 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 Johnnie 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 some one on the stand; |
| And it's likely they'd have 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 the 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. |
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