Best Famous Even Money Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Even Money poems. This is a select list of the best famous Even Money poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Even Money poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of even money poems.

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Written by Ernest Lawrence Thayer | Create an image from this poem

Casey At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, 
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A pall-like 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 Casey could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
" But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake; and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.
So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat; for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn 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 Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey 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 flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -- "That ain't my style," said Casey.
"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 someone on the stand, and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone, he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew, but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched 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 Casey'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 little children shout, but there is no joy in Mudville mighty Casey has struck out.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Cassidys Epitaph

 Here lies a bloke who's just gone West, 
A Number One Australian; 
He took his gun and did his best 
To mitigate the alien.
So long as he could get to work He needed no sagacity; A German, Austrian, or Turk, Were all the same to Cassidy.
Wherever he could raise "the stuff" -- A liquor deleterious -- The question when he'd have enough Was apt to be mysterious.
'Twould worry prudent folks a lot Through mental incapacity; If he could keep it down or not, Was all the same to Cassidy.
And when the boys would start a dance, In honour of Terpsichore, 'Twas just an even-money chance You'd find him rather shickery.
But once he struck his proper stride, And heard the band's vivacity, The jazz, the tango, or the slide Was all the same to Cassidy.
And now he's gone to face the Light, With all it may reveal to him, A life without a drink or fight Perhaps may not appeal to him; But when St Peter calls the roll Of men of proved tenacity, You'll find the front-rank right-hand man Will answer; "Here .
.
.
Cassidy.
"