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 pall-like silence fell                            upon the patrons of the game.

 A straggling few got                            up to go in deep despair. The rest
 Clung to the 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 hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
 So upon that stricken                            multitude grim melancholy sat,
 For there seemed but                            little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

 But Flynn let drive                            a single, to the wonderment of all,
 And Blake, the much                            despised, tore the cover off the ball;
 And when the dust                            had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
 There was Jimmy safe                            at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

 Then from five thousand                            throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
 It rumbled through the                            valley, it rattled in the dell;
 It pounded on 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 lit 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 flashed 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 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 bade the game go on;
 He signaled to the                            pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
 But Casey still ignored                            it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

 "Fraud!" cried the maddened                            thousands, and 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                            favoured 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.