Just as fair warning: this poem is pretty depressing. Published in the Brooklyn Eagle in 1883, it describes a player who has passed away. But wow, whoever he was (real or imagined), he sounded like quite the ballplayer.
*
J. smith is dead. That fine young man
We ne’er shall see him more,
He was a member of our club
Since 1864.
His private virtues were immense,
His manner was free and bluff,
He wore a paper collar, and
Was never known to muff.
He rarely took a drink more strong
Then lemonade or pop ;
He hated drunkards, and was a
Magnificent shortstop.
His nose was Roman, and his eyes
Continually were peeled ;
He made a splended umpire, and
A beautiful left field.
His hair was red, and shingled close ;
Much sunburned was his face,
He never showered with more effect
Than on second base.
Being a man, he had his faults,
As likewise have we all ;
He felt a preference for the New
York regulation ball.
Though not a matrimonial man,
He dearly loved a match,
And, like his sisters, had but few
Superiors on the catch.
He had a noble mind, as eke
A very supple wrist ;
And when he pitched he gave the ball
His own peculiar twist.
Of politics and church affairs
He held restricted views ;
His feet were usually encased
In canvas, hob nailed shoes.
But he is gone. With ins and outs
Forever he is done ;
He broke his heart and hurt his spleen
In making a home run.
His body we have planted now,
His soul is in the sky ;
The angels reached from heaven down
And took him on the fly.
