Base-Ball Ballads/The Real Springtime

by Grantland Rice

 

THE REAL SPRINGTIME.

I do not care about the springOf which the high-browed poets sing—Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,And all that sort of blooming thing.I care not for the trioletWhich boosts the early violet,Nor buzzing bees, nor budding tree,Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;The bard who brays of meadows greenTo me is balmy in the bean.

I do not care about the spring,Of happy larks upon the wing,Of mocking birds that rise and sing,And all that fuzzy sort of thing;I care not for the "April snow,"Of white bloom wafted to and fro,"The sunlit weather," purple heather,Lovers-down-the-lane-together;The dope who draws this brand of throbTo me is knotty in the knob.

But hail—thrice hail—the golden springWhich ushers in the spitball "fling;"The echo of the three-base "bing,"Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;The shout across the Great DivideOf "Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!"The mighty roar that sings the score,The chance to lap the umpire's gore;T'ell with your mocking bird's spring call—Give me the melody, "Play ball."