ry shone in mighty Casey's eye.

The lane is long, someone has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.
And Casey smiled--his rugged face no longer wore a frown;
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville has assembled; ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild.
He doffed his cap in proud disdain--but Casey only smiled.

"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began;
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low--the rival team was leading "four to one."

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.

Three men on base--nobody out--three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame.
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night
When the fourth one "fouled to catcher," and the fifth "flew out to right."

A dismal groan in chorus came--a scowl was on each face--
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored, "Strike him out!"
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard the shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it spread;
Another hiss, another groan--"Strike one!" the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee--
"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now--his was an easy lot.
But here the pitcher twirled again--was that a rifle shot?
A whack; a crack; and out through space the leather pellet flew--
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

Above the fence in center field, in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit;
But no