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.