But wait—Hist! Hearken! and likewise hark!
What means that galloping near the park?
What means that cry of a man dead sore?
"Am I too late? Say, what's the score?"
And echo answered both far and near,
As the rooters shouted, "There's Paul Revere!"
Oh, how sweetly that moon did shine,
When P. Revere took the coaching line!
He woke up the grandstand from its trance,
And made the bleachers get up and dance—
He joshed the British with robust shout
Until they booted the ball about—
He whooped and he clamored all over the lot
Till the score was tied in a Gordian knot.
Now, in this part of the "Dope Recooked"
Are the facts which history overlooked—
How Paul Revere came to bat that night
And suddenly ended the long-drawn fight—
How he singled to center and then straightaway
Dashed on to second like Harry Bay—
Kept traveling on with the speed of a bird,
Till he whizzed like a meteor rounding third—
"Hold back, you lobster "—but all in vain—
The coachers shouted in tones of pain—
For Paul kept on with a swinging stride,
And he hit the ground when they hollered "SLIDE!"
Spectacular plays may come and go
In the hurry of Time's swift ebb and flow—
But never again will there be one
Like the first American "hit and run."
And as long as the old game lasts you'll hear
Of the midnight slide of P. Revere.
When the team from Podunk Centre comes to play in Baltimore
We will see the game presented as it was in days of yore.
When the score was in the hundreds as the coming shades of night
Called it at the seventh inning, and the players had a fight;
When 'twas "out" if any fielder caught the ball on its first bound,
And they "crossed the runner out" before he'd travelled half way