Hurrah! The season’s started—the opening game’s to-day!The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;The whole darn town is turning out, to get in on the funAnd cheer the team that has the flag already good as won.They have a silver loving cup for Johnson, and a caneFor every other player—O, they’re raving, wild, insane!They’re cheering like Comanches, all impatient for the fray,To see our team jump in and take the lead on opening day.
Hurrah! The season’s started—the opening game’s to-day!The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;The whole darn town is turning out, to get in on the funAnd cheer the team that has the flag already good as won.They have a silver loving cup for Johnson, and a caneFor every other player—O, they’re raving, wild, insane!They’re cheering like Comanches, all impatient for the fray,To see our team jump in and take the lead on opening day.
Hurrah! The season’s started—the opening game’s to-day!The fans are swarming to the park to see our heroes play;The whole darn town is turning out, to get in on the funAnd cheer the team that has the flag already good as won.
They have a silver loving cup for Johnson, and a caneFor every other player—O, they’re raving, wild, insane!They’re cheering like Comanches, all impatient for the fray,To see our team jump in and take the lead on opening day.
Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed.What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played?It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.
Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed.What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played?It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.
Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed.What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played?It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.
Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.Who told you Smith could play the game? And Jones is rotten too.Can that big dub Jackson NOW, and throw him off the nine;The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.
Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.Who told you Smith could play the game? And Jones is rotten too.Can that big dub Jackson NOW, and throw him off the nine;The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.
Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.Who told you Smith could play the game? And Jones is rotten too.Can that big dub Jackson NOW, and throw him off the nine;The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.
I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;But say, this bunch can’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.Say, this is on the level: I could not believe my eyesThe day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;The time has come to ride him out of town upon a rail;And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game,I wouldn’t like to say it, but I KNOW his proper name.
I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;But say, this bunch can’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.Say, this is on the level: I could not believe my eyesThe day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;The time has come to ride him out of town upon a rail;And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game,I wouldn’t like to say it, but I KNOW his proper name.
I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;But say, this bunch can’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.Say, this is on the level: I could not believe my eyesThe day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.
When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;The time has come to ride him out of town upon a rail;And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game,I wouldn’t like to say it, but I KNOW his proper name.
Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.
Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.
Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.
Hurrah! the season’s over, and I’m glad the race is past.I know we finished in the rut this year, a hopeless last.We didn’t do a blooming thing but hit the chutes and slump;But NEXT year keep your eye on us—we’ll be there from the jump.
Hurrah! the season’s over, and I’m glad the race is past.I know we finished in the rut this year, a hopeless last.We didn’t do a blooming thing but hit the chutes and slump;But NEXT year keep your eye on us—we’ll be there from the jump.
Hurrah! the season’s over, and I’m glad the race is past.I know we finished in the rut this year, a hopeless last.We didn’t do a blooming thing but hit the chutes and slump;But NEXT year keep your eye on us—we’ll be there from the jump.
“Game called”—across the field of playThe dusk has come, the hour is late;The fight is done and, lost or won,The player files out through the gate;The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,The stands are bare, the park is still;But through the night there shines the lightOf Home beyond the silent hill.“Game called”—where in the golden lightThe bugle rolled the reveille,The shadows creep where night falls deepAnd taps has called the end of play;The game is done, the score is in,The final cheer and jeer have passed,But in the night beyond the fightThe player finds his rest at last.“Game called”—upon the field of lifeThe darkness gathers, far and wide;The dream is done, the score is spunThat stands forever in the guide;Nor victory, nor yet defeatIs chalked against the player’s name,But down the roll the final scrollShows only “how he played the game.”
“Game called”—across the field of playThe dusk has come, the hour is late;The fight is done and, lost or won,The player files out through the gate;The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,The stands are bare, the park is still;But through the night there shines the lightOf Home beyond the silent hill.“Game called”—where in the golden lightThe bugle rolled the reveille,The shadows creep where night falls deepAnd taps has called the end of play;The game is done, the score is in,The final cheer and jeer have passed,But in the night beyond the fightThe player finds his rest at last.“Game called”—upon the field of lifeThe darkness gathers, far and wide;The dream is done, the score is spunThat stands forever in the guide;Nor victory, nor yet defeatIs chalked against the player’s name,But down the roll the final scrollShows only “how he played the game.”
“Game called”—across the field of playThe dusk has come, the hour is late;The fight is done and, lost or won,The player files out through the gate;The tumult dies, the cheer is hushed,The stands are bare, the park is still;But through the night there shines the lightOf Home beyond the silent hill.
“Game called”—where in the golden lightThe bugle rolled the reveille,The shadows creep where night falls deepAnd taps has called the end of play;The game is done, the score is in,The final cheer and jeer have passed,But in the night beyond the fightThe player finds his rest at last.
“Game called”—upon the field of lifeThe darkness gathers, far and wide;The dream is done, the score is spunThat stands forever in the guide;Nor victory, nor yet defeatIs chalked against the player’s name,But down the roll the final scrollShows only “how he played the game.”