It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville
       nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning
       left to play.
So, when Cooney died at second, 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 even money now, with Casey at the
       bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did
       Blake,
And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter
       was a fake,
 So on that stricken multitude a deathlike
       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 at second, and Flynn a-
        huggin' third.

 Then from the gladdened multitude went up a
        joyous yell一
 It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the
        dell;
 It struck up 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 when he
       wiped them on his shirt;
Then when the writhing pitcher ground the
       ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced 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 the
       stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted someone
       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 made 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 the ball
       go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth
       are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel vengeance 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.