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.