All Over Albany

Shelly at the Bat

(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer)

A Ballad of the Assembly, Sung in the Year 2015

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Assembly speaker that day;
The score stood four to two with but one session more to play.
And then when Wright died at first, and Woerner 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 Shelly could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now with Shelly at the bat.

But Morelle preceded Shelly, as did also Michael 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 Shelly getting to the bat.

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

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through tech valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Shelly, mighty Shelly, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Shelly’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Shelly’s bearing and a smile on Shelly’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Shelly 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 gleamed in Shelly’s eye, a sneer curled Shelly’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Shelly stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Shelly. “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 Shelly raised his hand.

With a smile of humble charity great Shelly’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Shelly still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Shelly and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Shelly wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Shelly’s lip, his teeth are clinched 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 Shelly’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 Assembly chambers—mighty Shelly has struck out.

... said Bob on Jan 27, 2015 at 10:53 AM | link