Ballad of the Old Home Nine

I tell you what it is, my son, you’ve missed an awful lot

By bein’ born sech times ez these, right here upon the spot.

These here swift, artificial times, they don’t appeal to me

Like that ol’ day so fur away, the day thet uster be.

Perhaps you think it’s fun to go an’ see a ball game played

As played by modern ball machines, an’ not the ol’ hand-made;

But ez for me, for right down sport, jest take ‘em all away,

An’ let me shout – turn inside out, fur them they uster play.

I’d like to take you back a ways, to see the ol’ home nine

Put up ag’inst a neighbor town, with all their friends in line,

When ev’ry player was a son uv his respective town,

An' doin’ all thet he could do to knock his rival down;

It warn’t no cash affair, my son, ‘twas gore an’ lots uv gore,

An’ ev’ry feller on the field a-hollerin’ fur more.

When ev’ry wummun, man an’ child all up an’ down the lines

Was wild with grief, or sweet relief, fur both their ol’ home nines.

How kin you feel the same fur one who’s gittin’ twice the pay

Fur jest a single game thet you would git per week, I say?

How kin you holler for a man born in the State o’ Maine,

Or wanter kick some other chap born on a western plain?

Uv course you can’t, not jest the same, ez though you know each one,

An’ ‘spected to git in the scrap afore the game was done!

When town was up ag’inst each town, an’ both was feelin’ fine;

That’s when ‘twas joy to be a boy behind your ol’ home nine.

I can’t furgit the last great game I saw the home boys play,

It seems to stick right in my mind ez though ‘twas yesterday;

Our side had netted twenty runs, the other twenty one,

An' we hed jest one innin’ more, an’ then the fun begun.

Two men wuz out, an’ Tommy Brown come up to take his licks,

An’ Watts, the pitcher facin’ him, wuz full uv scaly tricks;

Jim Platt wuz there a-huggin’ first, afeared to steal a bit,

Till someone on our side should make a most tremeny’us hit.

Tom Brown he waited till he got one jest to suit his eye,

An’ then he straightened up an’ let ol’ wound cudgel fly;

He swung with all his might an’ main, you’d orter seen that ball

Go sailin’ fur the town beyond, an’ no one saw it fall;

Around the bases, how they went! As though shot frum a gun,

With ev’ry townsman yellin’ wild fur Tommy Brown’s home run!

The other side wuz up in arms an’ formed a fightin’ line,

But fifty men rushed on the field to help the ol’ home nine.

Thet ball was never found, my son, it went fur good an’ all,

An’ Tommy Brown wuz lugged around the field by big an’ small;

The other team said ‘twazn’t fair becuz the ball wuz lost,

But our town warn’t in no mood to be severely crossed.

That night the score wuz painted on each fence an’ barn in town,

‘Twuz “22 to 21”, along with “Home-Run Brown”.

An’ while you see these modern games, you think so mighty fine,

I cant fergit thet last one yit, played by the ol’ home nine!

June 9, ‘09