RAYMOND’S RIDE

Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear
Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere.
The Paul Revere of “seventy-five”
Rode like a fiend and won in a drive.
The Paul Revere whose praises I sing
Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king.
No plunging charger, no Arab steed,
Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed,
No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side,
Plays a part in our Raymond’s ride.
Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking
Serves for the wonderful ride he’s taking.
And it hustles him over hollow and hill,
Drawn by a good old horse named WILL.

It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin
When it nears a bar or passes an inn;
It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite
When a brewery looms on the left or right.
When it nears The Coop or The Rooters’ Rest
It bucks as a mustang bucks out West.
But, calmly refusing to get a jag on,
Raymond clings to that water wagon.
* * *
To Revere’s great feat you may point with pride,
But Raymond is riding a greater ride.[1]

FOUR CONVERSATIONS

“I used to have ’em buffaloed when I was with Duluth,
Out in that dinky pine tree league, and here’s the honest truth:
This Mathewson ain’t better. Say, the benders that I slung
Had all the sluggers swinging till they’d almost bust a lung.
I’ll get ’em just the same right here—McGraw knows I can’t lose.”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s.
“I lost a tough game yesterday, but that don’t make me sad;
Believe me, I had everything—they walloped all I had.
I didn’t get no swell support; my catcher crossed me twice
And all the infield acted like a wagon full of ice.
They all support this Mathewson. When I go in we lose!”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s.

“I’ve been here just two months to-day, and things are looking black;
I lost a tough one yesterday, and now I’ve got the sack.
Say, everyone’s against me, kid. My curve is breaking great,
But four guys slammed it yesterday clear to the left field gate.
Now I’m released—you hear me? Released with run-down shoes!”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s.
* * *
“Get out of here, you rummy! I can’t hand you no more booze!”
Said the Barboy to the Pitcher up at Paddy Donahue’s.