Base-Ball Ballads/The Grand Old Winter League

by Grantland Rice

 

THE GRAND OLD WINTER LEAGUE.

Here's to the league where they all hit three hundred; Here's to the league where they all bag the flag;Here's to the wonderful, mighty, and thunderful Swat of the artist who's springing the gag—Springing the gag while the old stove is roaring Spieling of games that he won in the pinch;Fence-breaking hammerer, clean-'em-up slammerer Where every pitcher he faced was a cinch.

Here's to the league where they've all cinched the pennant— Cinched with a line-up that's keen on the job;Where in the bingtime of oncoming springtime Every guy signed is a "second Ty Cobb."Hail to the Wagners and dashing young Matthewsons— There with the speed and the curves and control;Swift-footed, heady, keen-eyed, and steady, Already sewing the flag to the pole.

Here's to the league where the hapless tail-ender Rises each year to the crest of the game;Where there is never an artist unclever, Never a star that is injured or lame;Where for a spell all the umpires are honest, Where every mogul has shown keen intrigue;Hip for the dope from the circuit of hope, Hail to the glorious Typewriter League!