class="c3">But he’s drawing a regular shortstop’s pay;
He romps around like a crippled cow
And shows the speed of a two-ton dray.
Night after night I kneel and pray
For a chance to work with the real high livers,
But I guess I’ll sub till my hair turns gray—
The seat of my pants is full of slivers.
Clancy ought to be steering a plow
Back on the farm near old Green Bay;
He’s playing third, with his slanting brow;
And Dugan ought to be pitching hay.
The bulls they’ve made since the first of May
Would give a McGraw one million shivers,
But it’s “stay on the bench!” for Kid O’Shay,
The seat of my pants is full of slivers.
“ENVY”
Manager, pardon this mournful bray,
But my pride is hurt and my conscience quivers;
Give me one chance in the thick of the fray—
The seat of my pants is full of slivers.
CASEY ON A BAT
It looked extremely rocky for the Boston team that day,
The score was one to nothing, with one inning left to play.
Casey, who played in centre field, had shown an hour too late—
He hadn’t any alibi when staggering through the gate.
So when he tore his necktie off and stepped upon his hat
The manager looked grim and said, “It’s Casey on a bat.”
“Well,” said the Boston manager, “with joy I ought to scream—
Here’s Casey with a dandy load, the best man on the team.
He told me he was sober, but he couldn’t quite get by
When he stepped upon his derby and was yanking off his tie.
Of all the hard luck in the world! The mean, ungrateful rat!
A blooming championship at stake and Casey on a bat.”
Two Boston batters in the ninth were speedily retired,
“Here, Casey!” cried the manager, speaking as one inspired,
“Go in and bat for Grogan! There’s a man on second base,
And if you hit the way you can we’ll win the pennant race.”
This is no knock on buttermilk, or anything like that,
But the winning hit was made that day by Casey on a bat. |
THE PITCHER’S SOLILOQUY
A pitcher known in the days gone by
As a star of the first degree
Was making the dirt and gravel fly
In the shade of an old oak tree.
His spade was long and his arm was strong,
And the ditch that he dug was wide;
He paused at the sound of the dinner gong—
And this is the sermon he sighed:
“Young man, you are climbing the ladder now—
Your arm is as firm as steel;
The wreath of laurel is on your brow
And the pride of a prince you feel.
Do you think you will play when your hair turns gray?
I thought my prowess would last,
But you can’t strike out the men of to-day
With the curves you threw in the past!”
In the merciless baseball game of life
We may shine for a fleeting hour,
But the strongest frame comes to shun the strife
And loses its youthful power.
So strive to lay, while it comes your way,
A fence for Adversity’s blast.
You can’t strike out the men of to-day
With the curves you threw in the past. |
BLESSED BE BASEBALL
The game was on! The cheers and roars
Rang Eastward to Long Island’s shores;
“Come on, you Matty—show your class!”
“Oh, you Red Murray! Scorch the grass!”
“Heads up, Big Injun!” “Scoop ’em, Bridwell!”
“Devore stole home! And sure he slid well!”
These and a thousand other roars
Rang Eastward to Long Island’s shores.
And folks of various sorts were there
From East Side yeggs to ladies fair;
Here a tragedian, there a joker,
Here a banker and there a broker.
Young dry goods clerks with booze clerks mingled,
And all sat in with nerves that tingled.
One white-haired woman sat alone,
Proud as a queen upon her throne.
One dear old lady, calm, sedate,
Age, very likely, eighty-eight.
“Isn’t she sweet?” the women said;
“Look at that lovely silvery head!”
As in the sun she serenely basked
A rooter sitting beside her asked:
“How did you come to get away?”
“My grandson,” she answered, “died to-day!” |
RAYMOND’S RIDE
Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear
Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere.
The Paul Revere of “seventy-five”
Rode like a fiend and won in a drive.
The Paul Revere whose praises I sing
Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king.
No plunging charger, no Arab steed,
Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed,
No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side,
Plays a part in our Raymond’s ride.
Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking
Serves for the wonderful ride he’s taking.
And it hustles him over hollow and hill,
Drawn by a good old horse named WILL.
It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin
When it nears a bar or passes an inn;
It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite
When a brewery looms on the left or right.
When it nears The Coop or The Rooters’ Rest
It bucks as a mustang bucks out West.
But, calmly refusing to get a jag on,
Raymond clings to that water wagon.
* * *
To Revere’s great feat you may point with pride,
But
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