THE CHAMPS OF THE ALLEY LEAGUE.
Just at this time every season, when the sun beats down on the street;
When the breath of another springtime comes up with its fragrance sweet;
When the winter league race is over, and the clans of a new campaign
Are camped in the fields of Dixie, cheered on by the fan refrain;
As they talk of a coming pennant or speak of an all-star team
My fancy flies on the south wind, on the crest of an old, old dream,
Back where the eye gleamed brightly, where the soul knew no fatigue,
When I was one of "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
When the breath of another springtime comes up with its fragrance sweet;
When the winter league race is over, and the clans of a new campaign
Are camped in the fields of Dixie, cheered on by the fan refrain;
As they talk of a coming pennant or speak of an all-star team
My fancy flies on the south wind, on the crest of an old, old dream,
Back where the eye gleamed brightly, where the soul knew no fatigue,
When I was one of "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
I hear that the "fever is rising," that "the great fan flock once more
Is ready to sit in the bleachers and cheer for the winning score;"
They speak of a "coming wonder," they talk of a "flag to fly,"
They whisper the thrilling story of "Mike and his batting eye;"
But out from the mad fanatics my fancy wanders free
From the hopes of a glad to-morrow to the land of the used-to-be,
Far from the "spit-ball" gossip, far from "McGraw's intrigue,"
Where I "played first" on "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
Is ready to sit in the bleachers and cheer for the winning score;"
They speak of a "coming wonder," they talk of a "flag to fly,"
They whisper the thrilling story of "Mike and his batting eye;"
But out from the mad fanatics my fancy wanders free
From the hopes of a glad to-morrow to the land of the used-to-be,
Far from the "spit-ball" gossip, far from "McGraw's intrigue,"
Where I "played first" on "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
And what is the mighty Wagner to Mickey, "The Human Slat,"
Who batted around "eight hundred," with a broomstick for a bat?
Where is the "big league gameness" of stars they have set on thrones
To "Johnny the Jew," who tied the score with a slide over cobblestones?
"Matthewson's curves are a mystery," "Walsh is a wonder, too,"
But Pat Maguire set the "strike-out" mark with a pellet of "yarn and glue;"
Boast of your Chance and Jennings, winners of keen intrigue;
But they never stacked up with "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
Who batted around "eight hundred," with a broomstick for a bat?
Where is the "big league gameness" of stars they have set on thrones
To "Johnny the Jew," who tied the score with a slide over cobblestones?
"Matthewson's curves are a mystery," "Walsh is a wonder, too,"
But Pat Maguire set the "strike-out" mark with a pellet of "yarn and glue;"
Boast of your Chance and Jennings, winners of keen intrigue;
But they never stacked up with "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
Just at this time every season, when the March sun warms the town;
When the little green leaves peep shyly from the stark, bare limbs of brown;
When the voice of the rooter rises in the roll of a rippling cheer,
The winds of another springtime blow back from another year
The cry of the barefoot legions, the shouts of the tattered host
As twinkling feet raced madly in a dash for the telephone post,
To a wagon wheel "for second base," with never a touch of fatigue,
When I was one of "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.
When the little green leaves peep shyly from the stark, bare limbs of brown;
When the voice of the rooter rises in the roll of a rippling cheer,
The winds of another springtime blow back from another year
The cry of the barefoot legions, the shouts of the tattered host
As twinkling feet raced madly in a dash for the telephone post,
To a wagon wheel "for second base," with never a touch of fatigue,
When I was one of "The Ragged Stars," the champs of the Alley League.