When the game is done
And the players creep,
One by one,
To the League of Sleep,
Deep in the night
They may not know
The way of the fight,
The fate of the foe;
And the cheer that passed
From applauding bands
Is stilled at last—
But the record stands.
The base hits made,
And the errors wrought;
How the game was played,
How the fight was fought;
Though the game be done
Where the night is deep
And one by one
From the field they creep;
Their day has passed
Through the twilight gates,
But the scroll is cast
And the record waits.
“THE MAJOR LEAGUER’S DAUGHTER;” OR, “THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.”
(Up to the hour of going to press the music of this soon-to-be popular ballad had not been written. The sport department office boy was out at the time, while the janitor was busy; so any who peruse it must compose their own music to the selection.)
They were seated in the parlor, where the gas was burning low.
And he held her little paw within his own;
He looked at her and whispered: “Mame, you know I love you so;
You’ve made more hits with me than Fielder Stone,
Your curves look awful good to me, your speed is just my style.”
But here he stopped and sadly bowed his head;
The decision was against him, he was out about a mile,
When unto him these cruel words she said:
Chorus.
“I am the only daughter of a major league phenom,
While you are but an unknown bush league bloke.
My old man hits .300 almost every season, Tom;
While they tell me that your average is a joke.
Some day when you are drafted or you have a batting eye,
I may listen to the words you have to say;
So Tom, he passed her up for good, and now she wonders why
Them cruel words unto him once she said.