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 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.