The Project Gutenberg eBook of Base-ball Ballads, by Grantland Rice.

One by one they’re drifting back—
Hank McGee to Hackensack;
Pat Maguire, the world-famed “spitter;”
Mike the Bite, “three-hundred” hitter;
Jim and Ed and Bill and Jack.
One by one they’re drifting back,
With their curves, their keen intrigue,
To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.

One by one they leave and go
Back again to Kokomo,
Kankakee and Rural Dell,
Where they cast a mystic spell
On the “scouts” who touted them,
Each a “human diadem,”
In a serried line return
With their “curves and speed to burn.”

One by one they fade away
To the fragrant, uncut hay.
“Second Wagners,” “second Cobbs”
Back upon their old-time jobs
In the Fried Ham Circuit where
They were stars, with some to spare;
Where they played with famed eclat[*]
In the field and at the bat.

[*] “cat.”

One by one they file back home
To the sweet scent of the loam;
Yet but one brief month ago
They were “making Walsh look slow”—
Each, the phenom of the age,
Flashed upon the sporting age
As the “greatest of them all”
When it came to playing ball.

Pounding on the beaten track—
Hank McGee to Hackensack,
Pat Maguire to Kankakee,
Mike to “Sunny Tennessee”—
In a serried line return,
With their “curves and speed to burn,”
Batting eyes and keen intrigue,
To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.

IN THE GOOD OLD WINTER TIME.

(Old, but to the point. As sung by the fan chorus around many circuits.)

“In the good old winter time, the good old winter time,
How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb.
They call each new recruit a ‘peach,’ although he is a ‘lime.’
O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!”

II.

The months rolled by and spring had come, and there on Rooters’ Row
The same fan sat with eyes ablaze and ruddy cheeks aglow.
He saw the “Second Wagner” strike out four times in one game,
While seven ghastly errors were chalked up against his name.
He saw the “sterling pitcher” who had “starred” at “Rural Falls,”
Yield nineteen massive bingles and a dozen base on balls,
And then above the battle and the rattle of the fray
He softly hummed the chorus of that far-gone winter day:

Chorus.

“In the good old winter time, the good old winter time,
How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb!
By summer almost every ‘peach’ turns out to be a ‘lime.’
O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!”

AFTER THE GAME.

Now that the hard-fought day is ended,
With laurels for the favored few;
The cheering and the jeering blended
In praise or blame that may be due;
Now that the score has been completed,
Beyond the shallow depths of fame,
Among both Victors and Defeated
We’ll turn to those who played the game.

Not in the losing or the winning,
Success nor failure for the day;
But from the battle’s first beginning
We’ll take their work up, play by play.
How well they tried! how they stood ready!
Beyond the world crowd’s narrow sight
We’ll lift our glasses, bravely, steady,
And drink to those who fought the fight.

The game is done, the fight completed,
What matters now who reached the goal?
Alike the Victor and Defeated
Wait for the final scorer’s scroll;
And those who look may read the story
Of star by star against each name,
Set over those with world-won glory,
The list of those who played the game.

ON ROOTERS’ ROW.

We got a swell chance now to cop wid dat guy at de bat;
Why, say, dat hobo couldn’t hit de ball yard wid his hat.
If he was in a steamboat and it blew up in a wreck,
He couldn’t hit de water if he tumbled off de deck;
I’ve paid me month’s rent four times since he stung one on de snout,
And what I’m sayin’ to you is dat’s slumpin’ some, old scout.
Two runs to tie, de bases choked; we get ’em to de mat,
And den a piece of cheese like him comes wobblin’ to de bat.

Bing! on de nose—O wow! O wow! Beyond de fielder’s mitt.
Say, where’s de bloomin’ guy wot said dat lobster couldn’t hit?
I guess he didn’t get to dat last bender wid de wood,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you I knowed de hobo could?
Three runs across de bloomin’ plate, and now de scrap’s a cinch;
Dere never was a guy like him to clout one in a pinch;
Right on de nose across de lot, beyond de outfield’s reach,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat lobster was a peach?

II.

Say, maybe dis ain’t pie to-day wid Mickey on de hill;
Dey couldn’t beat dat sucker if he handed ’em de pill;
He ain’t lost one in fourteen weeks, and any time dey get
A base hit when he’s workin’ right just sue me for de debt.
You’ve got to hand it to him, Bo, and dat’s no foolish tip,
He makes dose bloomin’ batters look like chickens wid de pip;
I’ll take me bonnet off to him—he’s kept us in de race,
Fer minus him I’d bet me coat we’d be in seventh place.

Two doubles and a base on balls here in de openin’ round?
I wonder why de manager leaves dat mutt on de mound?
Another hit, another pass! See here, you crazy lout,
Why don’t you warm a pitcher up and take dat bonehead out?
Who said dat guy could pitch a ball? Dere goes another pass.
Dat mucker ain’t got smoke enough to crack a pane of glass.
De minute he walked in de box I knowed we’d hit the ditch,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat hobo couldn’t pitch?

THE LOVE SONNETS OF A SON OF SWAT.

Speaking of curves, say, on the level, Bo,
She’d make Waddell look like a dinky-dink,
And Eddie Reulbach’s straight without a kink;
For she’s all curves from neck four feet below—
Out-curves and in-shoots, all there in a row.
Compared to hers, Ed Plank’s are on the blink.
If Hughey Jennings sees her, I don’t think
“Wild Bill” next year will get a chance to show.

I’ve played some games that I tried hard to win;
But this is my world’s series championship;
And if I lose, back to the minor bin
For your young uncle—that’s my one best tip.
To-night I’ll call, and risk an awful freeze
By showing her just how to work the “squeeze.”

III.

Say, I’m the lemon leaguer on a slump;
In love’s ball game the bench is where I sit.
I couldn’t foul one, much less make a hit
Or tie the game up with a timely thump.
I had a chance to make good on the jump;
But when I tried to grab her little mitt,
I dropped it first, and then I fumbled it,
Playing the game like some bone-headed chump.

But when at last I got my eye and tried
To work the “squeeze,” she coached me to my place.
“Get back,” she warbled. “Slide, you lobster, slide;
Don’t take too long a lead from off your base:
Just play it safe, you mutt; first time at bat
Is not the place to spring a play like that.”

IV.

This game of love is not my longest suit;
Doping it out has put wheels in my bun.
Just as you think you’ve got the pennant won,
Bum luck will land you on the soapy chute;
You come back hard, but every time you boot
Each chance you get until the game is done;
And when at last you need the tying run,
There ain’t no bleacher bugs to rise and root.

I doped it out the first time that we faced
To warm up good until I got control,
And then to curve a fast one round her waist,
Hoping this way to put her in a hole.
Such was my dope; but, as I’ve said before,
The dope is not what makes the full box score.

Ah, love, indeed thou art a heartless game.
The gong rings out, the umpire shouts, “Play ball!”
You rush out gaily till you hear her call:
“Back up, back up, your salary whip is lame.
What batting average stands against your name
In Dun’s or Bradstreet’s little ‘Guide to All?’
You can’t tag love inside a cottage wall
Minus the gate receipts—not with this dame!”

“Nix, not for mine,” says she. “Fine chance to win
We’d have with landlord on the rival team,
With grocer, butcher fielding up our tin
And smashing liners into love’s young dream.
Yours for a steady job and no fatigue
Before I sign with any Fireside League.”

VI.

Much like the mutt with home plate well in sight,
Who sprints on in with long, stake-winning stride,
Bringing the tying run with bulging pride;
As hope once more soars upward, like a kite
Who thinks he’s got it beat all right, all right;
While thousands clamor: “Hit the dirt, there—slide!”
When over all the tumult, far and wide,
The umpire shrieks, “You’re out!” in mad delight.

So I got mine in true O’Loughlin style:
Just when I thought the game would be a tie
Her old man yelled, “You’re out about a mile,”
And waved me back with murder in his eyes.
“I’m acting umpire in this park,” says he;
“So don’t you pass no funny talk with me.”

VII.

So moves life’s game wherever we may go;
At every base some umpire stands and waits—
A delegate shipped earthward by the fates—
Who has it in for players here below.
We drive one safe inside three feet or so;
The robber umpire struts around and states
That “it went foul.” We know his eyes ain’t mates;
But “foul” it stands, and so the score books go.

But I ain’t through. Perhaps in nineteen eight,
If I can act like Tyrus Cobb at bat,
I’ll get a chance to sign a running mate
And pitch my park within a two-room flat.
Five thousand per might clear her old man’s vision
And make him change that other bum decision.

AT THE END OF THE GAME.

When I have heard the Final Umpire’s call
Ring out across the diamond of my strife
That ends the little game which we call life,
I shall not care about the score at all,
How well I fielded, how I hit the ball;
Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife,
Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife—
These shall not matter in the endless pall;

These shall not matter on that final day
When life’s game passes with the setting sun,
If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say:
“The records show no pennant you have won,
No brilliant average that brings you fame;
Yet you go up, because ‘you played the game.’”

THE MOGUL’S DREAM.

(With apologies to “The Actor’s Dream.”)

One night a mogul died, and straight his soul
Set forth upon its journey to the goal
Of all good people. But the gate was locked;
So while he shivered in the cold, he knocked—
Not once, but twice—he rapped with all his might
Upon the pearly entrance, barred and tight.

“Who comes,” St. Peter cried, “with all that din?”
“It’s me,” the magnate cried. “Please let me in.”
“And who are you,” he heard the good saint say,
“That you should hear the golden harps, I pray?
What have you done upon that earth so drear,
That you should mingle with the angels here?”
“I was the manager,” he straight replied—
“The mogul of a ball team ere I died.”

“And what means that,” replied the saint, “pray tell?”
“It means that all you ever get is—well,
I won’t repeat the word I had in mind;
And yet no other fits that I can find.
Through fall and winter every year I plan
To gather in a pennant-winning clan;
I labor hard from early morn till night
In search of talent anywhere in sight;
Right off the reel, my pitchers one by one
Blow up, and then my catchers are undone;
And for my trouble, what get I in thanks?
The fiendish yelp of twenty thousand cranks.

My life was one of fiendish, piercing woe,
The roughest on that unkempt plain below;
Aye, to the full I’ve drunk life’s bitter dregs—
Hissed, jeered at, pelted with decrepit eggs.
And to what end I come back in the spring?
Only to hear the anvil chorus ring.”

L’Envoi.

“Come, enter quick,” St. Peter then replied;
“Heaven’s joys to such as you are not denied;
Choose any harp among these scenes of mirth.
O HAPLESS SOUL, YOU HAD YOUR HELL ON EARTH!”

HARD-LUCK ADAM.

Adam had no Easter hat to buy for Mrs. Eve;
Adam had no “cost-of-living” troubles to aggrieve;
Adam had no job to hold by slaving day or night,
Adding columns, beating carpets, planning stuff to write.
Adam had a hectic cinch, played across the boards—
Everything that nature and an idle life affords.
And yet I wouldn’t change with him, whatever be my loss:
He never saw a triple drive the winning run across.

Adam had no dress to buy to calm his spouse’s grief
(All that Adam had to do was go and pull a leaf).
Back in Father Adam’s day, long and long ago,
There was not an Aldrich nor a crusty Uncle Joe;
Raving politicians never roamed about the land,
Double-crossing voters in a way to beat the band.
But with it all poor Adam never had a chance to dream
Of bold three-hundred hitters and a pennant-winning team.

Adam lived on Easy Street, dreaming in the sun;
Never a policeman there to cut in on his fun;
Never had a cook around threatening to leave;
“Bridge” was not invented in the days of Mrs. Eve.
Take it up and down the line in those golden days,
Adam had it on us in a hundred different ways;
And yet with all his blessings, what a dull and massive pall—
For poor old Father Adam never saw a game of ball!

DENTON (CY) YOUNG.

Fame may be fleeting and glory may fade;
Life at its best is a breath on the gale.
One hero passes, another is made;
New stars arise as the old one sets pale.
So when a stalwart steps out from the throng,
On with the tribute, let garlands be flung.
Here’s to the sturdy and here’s to the strong;
Here’s to the king of them all, Denton Young.

Anson has passed like a star in the night;
Richardson’s name from the line-up is cast;
Rusie and Latham are out of the fight;
Mighty Buck Ewing is buried and passed;
Clarkson the wizard, and Kelly and Gore
Linger no more on the fan’s fickle tongue.
Only one name flashes out as of yore—
There on the red line of battle is Young.

Tiernan and Tucker? We wait for reply.
Jack Ward and Pfeffer are out of the game;
No cheer arises when Brouthers steps by;
Even Van Haltren is only a name;
Meekin and Hoffer and “Kind Bid” McPhee—
Their day is over, their songs are all sung.
Lo! like the roar of the storm-harried sea
Swells the wild chorus for Denton (Cy) Young.

Herman Long’s only a memory now;
Big Del is under the myrtle to-day—
No more the laurel is bound to his brow;
Bob Lowe and Zimmer have passed from the fray.
Where are the heroes saluted of old—
Heroes to whom through the years we have clung?
Have all deserted the Clan of the Bold?
Not while the echoes are ringing for Young.

Breitenstein, Phillips, and Weyhing and Nops,
Hahn, Rhines, and Corbett and Dr. McJames—
Where are their shoots and their puzzling drops?
Who cheers to-day when you mention their names?
Lost in the shadows, their story is told;
On memory’s ramparts their pictures are hung;
But here in the lime light, as great as of old,
Looms up the stalwart—the only Cy Young.

Where is the mighty Dalrymple to-day?
Miller and Denny and “Cuppy the Sly?”
Show me their names in the line-up, I pray.
Vainly I wait for an answering cry.
Few of us stand to the guns through the years;
One at a time from the heights we are flung.
Heroes soon pass in this Valley of Tears;
But here’s to the king of them all—Denton Young.

THE UMP’S MIDWINTER DREAM.

It was a sunny day in spring;
The warbling birds were all a-wing;
An April sky of azure hue
Enchanted the fanatic’s view,
And sultry was the atmosphere
Upon the first game of the year.
Upon the field His Umps appeared,
And, lo! the throng arose and cheered,
While all around the fife and drums
Played “Hail! the Conquering Hero Comes.”

The game began, and to the plate
The first man wandered up, sedate;
“Strike one, strike two, strike three—you’re out!”
The umpire waited for the shout
Of rage from all around, but not
A murmur bubbled from the lot;
The player bowed and walked away,
Without another word to say;
Nor paused, with language somewhat free
Impugning his ancestral tree.
Nobody had a kick to make,
However costly his mistake;
And when a foul tip off the bat
Came hurling by and knocked him flat,
In sympathy the bleachers sat
With saddened hearts and tear-dimmed eyes,
Until once more they saw him rise.

He was to player and to fan
A scholar and a gentleman,
While every paper in the land
Was boosting him to “beat the band.”

And then in joy he gave a shout,
And woke to FIND HIS PIPE WAS OUT!

A REAL JOB FOR TEDDY.

Teddy, when your work is through in the Presidential chair;
When another takes the shift where you’ve learned to do and dare,
You will need another job—one that’s a monstrosity,
That will soak up, day by day, all your strenuosity.
It must be a husky job, full of smoke and fire to boot;
And in looking round I’ve found only one I know will suit,
Only one where your big stick will be needed day by day;
Only one to fit in, Ted, with your rough-and-tumble way;
Only one where in the end you will some day long for rest,
Where your energy will wane and your spirit be depressed.

You will find it different from any “nature-faking” fuss;
You will find it harder than mauling up the Octopus.
It will be a rougher job than a charge up San Juan Hill,
Or a battle with the trusts—it will take a stronger will.
Fighting predatory wealth of the kings of high finance,
Calling railroad moguls down will not be a circumstance.
All in all, ’twill suit you fine. Never having been afraid
Of aught else upon this earth, you should be an umpire, Ted!

That’s the only job for you; take our tip now, Theodore;
Think of how your pulse will leap when you hear the angry roar.
There your nerve can have full play; you will find the action there
Which you’ve hunted for in vain from your Presidential chair.

Chasing Afric lions and such, catching grizzlies will seem tame
Lined up with the jolt you’ll get in the thick of some hard game.
Choking hungry wolves to death as a sport will stack up raw
When you see Kid Elberfield swinging for your under jaw.
When you hear Hugh Jennings roar, “Call them strikes, you lump of cheese!”
Or McGraw comes rushing out, kicking at your shins and knees;
When the bleachers stand and shout, “Robber, liar, thief, and dub!”
You’ll be sorry for the gents in your Ananias Club.
You’ll find it’s a different thing from making peace with old Japan
Than when you’ve called a strike on O’Conner or McGann.

Holding California back isn’t quite the same, I’ll state,
As is calling Devlin out on a close one at the plate.
Though I’ve hunted far and near, there is nothing else to do
Where you’ll get what’s coming, Ted, all that’s coming unto you.
You should be an umpire, Ted; and I’ll bet two weeks would be
Quite enough to curb your rash, headlong stren-u-os-i-tee.

THE SHOCK.

If I should die to-night,
And as with folded arms in death I lay,
Arrayed in shrouds of linen pure and white,
Some rooter should bend over me and say,
“Old boy, I’m sorry that you’re down and out;
I hope you’ll get to heaven, for you’re square;
I’ve seen you umpire many a hard-fought bout
Without one bum decision, I can swear—”

If he said that,
Although my soul was even then a spook,
I’d rise at once in my large, white cravat,
To get one look at him, one final look;
I’d make him pass me out that dope once more,
The same quaint words that he had used before.
Yes, I’d rise up till he was done, and then—
I’d drop back dead again.

WHEN “WIFEY” READS DOPE.

Seated at the breakfast table on a sultry summer’s day,
Mrs. Smith picked up the paper in a careless, idle way,
Threw her lamps on social items, noted quickly up and down
Names of lucky, favored people who had blown away from town
In this steamy August weather, till at last her restless glance
Fell upon the sporting section, and she lingered in a trance.

Mr. Smith was eating bacon—which the same, as you should know,
Is a widespread breakfast fodder anywhere you choose to go—
And his jaw was working deftly, like the handle of a pump,
When he heard an exclamation from his wife that made him jump.
“What’s the matter?” he responded; with his appetite well sated.
“Why those frowns upon your forehead? Why those eyeballs so dilated?”

“Tell me this,” she said and shuddered, “tell me what this means, I pray:
‘Nothing but the gallant playing of Mike Johnson saved the day.
With the score tied in the seventh, and the combat gliding by,
Mike dashed out, and by fast sprinting swallowed Piggy Jones’ long fly.’”
“Good for Mike,” her husband answered. “He’s the goods—I always knew it.”
“Swallowed Jones’s fly?” she murmured. “Tell me how the man could do it!”

Then she read: “With mighty bludgeons in their mitts, the demon Sox
Hopped on Waddell in the pinches, hammered him out of the box,
Shot him full of poisoned arrows, drove him to the uncut woods,
Walloped all the wadding from him—for he didn’t have the goods.”
“This is awful,” said she, frowning. “Why should he have drawn a beating?”
But her husband only snickered, and again turned to his eating.

“Look at this,” she stammered, paling: “‘Hahn got bumped upon the bean;
Umpire Sheridan’s decisions threw a smell like gasoline;
Jones was punctured in the lattice; Walsh’s benders broke their backs—
For they couldn’t even hit him with a shotgun or an ax.’
Baseball must be very wicked,” said she with puzzled face.
“Yes, it’s hell,” her husband answered, “when your team ain’t in the race.”

A HARD-LUCK YARN.

While reposin’ one day in me leisurely way, a-puffin’ a wicked cheroot,
I happens to spy with a glance of me eye a gent in a major league suit.
“I know who ye are—you’re a major league star,” says I, “or you once used to be.”
“Well, jigger me neck, but your dope is correck,” was the answer he handed to me.

And he mutters, says he: “I’ve a story for ye
Which I want ye to put in the paper for me.

’Twas quite a while back, if me dope is exack, when I was a bloomin’ recruit;
I had just busted in from a minor league bin, with a try at a major league suit,
When the followin’ tale, which will make you turn pale, happened one day to me in a game;
And I think you’ll agree when you hear it from me, that I wasn’t hardly to blame.

’Twas the opening fray of the season that day, and the bases was full as a goat;
And the pitcher he smiled in a manner which riled as I swallowed a lump in me throat;
And he winged one across with a deft, easy toss, and it bubbled along at me waist;
And I swung till me back give a horrible crack, but I give it a terrible paist.
That ball riz and sailed till the people all paled, when it turned to a vanishin’ speck;
And me hands was swelled up like a fat, poisoned pup, while the bat I used was a wreck.
Clean over the ocean, like lightnin’ in motion, it whizzled and whistled and whirled;
Over China, Japan, it bounded and ran, till it traveled the length of the world.

With a most vicious swipe it dismantled the pipe in the mouth of King Edward at tea;
Then it veered to the Rhine, where it busted a stein which der Kaiser was holdin’, you see;
And it give quite a jar to the badly scared Czar when it toppled his throne to the ground;
But it went on its way with the speed of H. Bay, with a hop and a skip and a bound.

That night, with a sigh and a tear in his eye, the captain give me my release;
For the President wired that I had to be fired for the good of the country and peace.
‘He hits ’em too hard and too fur from the yard,’ was the message the President sent.
‘He has raised complications with neighborly nations; and I am a peaceable gent.’

So they turned me adrift and I give up my shift; and that’s why I’m out of the game.
I was too bloomin’ good, or I’m certain I would have acquired quite a notable name.”