(early corrupted version)
| It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; |
| The score stood four to six with but an inning left to play. |
| And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, |
| A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. |
| A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, |
| With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast. |
| For they thought if only Casey could get a whack at that, |
| They'd put up even money with Casey at the bat. |
| But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, |
| And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake; |
| So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence 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 the much despised, Blakey tore the cover off the ball, |
| And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, |
| There was Blakey safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. |
| Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, |
| It bounded from the mountain top and rattled in the dell, |
| It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on 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 as he wiped them on his shirt; |
| And while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip-- |
| Defiance gleamed from 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 hain't my style," said Casey-- "Strike one," the umpire said. |
| From the bleachers black with people there rose a sullen roar, |
| Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore, |
| "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one from the stand-- |
| And it's likely they'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand. |
| With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone, |
| He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the game go on; |
| He signaled to the pitcher and again the spheroid flew, |
| But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said "Strike two." |
| "Fraud!" yelled 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 would not let that ball go by again. |
| The sneer is gone from Casey's lip; his teeth are clenched with 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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