The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Trumper nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Miller died at first, and Esper 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 Trumpey could but get a whack at that—
We'd put up even money now, with Trumpey at the bat."
But Barr preceded Casey, as did also Jared K,
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 Trumpey getting to the bat.
But Barf let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Jared, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jared safe at second and Barf 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 Trumpey, mighty Trumpey, was advancing to the bat.
There was sleaze in Trumpey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was (white) pride in Trumpey's bearing and a smile lit Trumpey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Trumpey 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 Trumpey's eye, a sneer curled Trumpey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Trumpey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Trumpey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, (with no) 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 Trumpey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Trumpey'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 Trumpey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Trumpey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Trumpey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Trumpey'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 Trumpey has flamed out.
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