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Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1863-1940)


Casey at the Bat


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 sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that 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 but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 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 into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and 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 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 some one 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 sphereoid 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 favored 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.


In my opinion one of the most satisfying poems ever. Being a Sports lover, it ranks as one of my all-time favroites.

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All of the worlds so lovely,
And everything so nice,
And everyones so happy,
Beneath the ink black sky.

The Hooded One

I remember reading this poem in either middle school or highschool. My favorite part is the end as I can almost see the shock of the new reader.

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Olly Buckle

I once had an Aussie partner who used to recite "The ballad of Joe McGraw" I'm guessing at the spelling, I have only ever heard it. It has the same sort of cadence and rhythm and a nice twist at the end, though it's not about sport.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyVvr9EHBDU

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The Backward OX

This is the most astonishing piece of poetry I’ve come across in many a long day.

Astonishing because until I stopped and thought about what I was reading, I could have been forgiven for thinking it was a poem by my favourite poet.

The only strange element there is that my favourite poet was an Australian - “Banjo” Paterson. Then the penny started slowly descending when I noticed Thayer’s 1863-1940. Paterson lived from 1864-1941. Clearly, among poets who wrote in similar humorous vein, the rhythm would have been common to many living in the same era. Maybe they didn’t have the Net but obviously these influences still circulated globally.

As a kid I memorised many of the Banjo’s poems. Now I shall have to add this one to my store (and perhaps others if I can find them). Even for one of my age this poem about Casey should be a cinch, as I can feel the rhythm or cadence or whatever it’s called just by closing my eyes.

Amazing.

And thank you.

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How Beautiful it is to Do Nothing, and then Rest Afterwards . . . . . Spanish proverb

sardpete

Yes it's gorgeous. Like the hooded one I remember reading it as a kid (in England oddly enough) and it always stayed with me. For a pom it's like watching Flintoff bat...

The Backward OX

....provided Ponting isn't fielding at silly mid wicket.

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How Beautiful it is to Do Nothing, and then Rest Afterwards . . . . . Spanish proverb

lin

It's funny, most Americans are familiar with that poem and could even quote the first and last line. But NOBODY, myself included, knows who wrote it.

So what do you think of Robert W. Service?

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sardpete

Ox you didn't understand! I was saying exactly that! How many times have I seen Flintoff come in and blow it recently.
Yes Lin, I got my Service off the shelf after reading your post. Dan McGrew and Sam Mcgee are great. Did you ever read Orwell writing about good bad poetry? It's in his essay on Kipling who is another of the same.
What makes "Casey at the bat" so special is that it describes a moment every sports fan knows so well. Odd how little poetry there is about sport from the spectator's point of view, when you think how much passion it arouses. For cricket there is the calypso "Those little pals of mine" but not much else that I can think of.

lin

Nothing wrong with Kippling. (As those who have kippled well know) Poetry is the most sneered at of arts, and that sort of thing is merely unfashionable. The funny thing is that Kipling, the imperial apologist racist whiteman burden dude, is coming back into favor.

I used to be able to recite Kipling by the page. You read it once or twice and it sticks in your head. Something to be said for that actually. And for Service and Tennyson and whoever wrote Casey and all that stuff.

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sardpete

Mind you Stephen did write this about him
To R. K.

Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more.

lin

LOL!

I could envision a modern version;


When the Queen grows frail and ellerly
And Sam is spayed to spawn no more
When we all grow stout as Rex
And see Mike hammered to the floor.

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sardpete

Nice one lin.
and the kings steve no more?