The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day.
The score stood four to two with but one inning to play;
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrow did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, in deep despair. The rest
Clung to 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 lulu and the latter was a cake.
So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat
For there seemed 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.
When the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

From five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell.
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell.
It knocked upon 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 to his place.
There was pride in Casey’s bearing, 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 it on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eyes, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

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 benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar
Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand.
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 spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two .”

“Fraud! cried maddened thousands, an echo answered, “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

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 favored land the sun is shinning bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.