ALLITERATIVE VERSE PROJECT
WRITING ASSIGNMENT: ALLITERATIVE VERSE
Students will "translate" a rhyming poem that tells a story into alliterative
verse.
A related assignment can be to write an original story in alliterative
verse.
"CASEY AT THE BAT" MEDIEVAL STYLE
"Casey at the Bat," originally in rhyming couplets, would sound
quite different if it were written in alliterative verse, as were
CASEY AT THE BAT (Ernest Thayer)
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
So when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that©©
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a©hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the hillside and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm©waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stands;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hands.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the multitude was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville mighty Casey has struck out.
The Mudville team's men with
melancholy played on.
Of six of the scores
they sadly had but two.
The player Cooney could not carry them, nor Burrows,
A pallor wreathed
the patrons' pallid faces.
In their deep despair
departed a depressed few.
But in human breasts
boldly hope beat on;
The crowd did consider
if Casey could just bat.
But Flynn followed Casey followed
then by Blake,
And little Flynn lacked skill, a lulu, and the latter a fake.
Many in the multitude
mulled for moments of silence
And considered the chance Casey could
get to bat.
Somehow Flynn singled,
surprising all who saw,
And Blake then blasted
the ball far back.
And, durn, the dust
declining showed decisively
Jimmy sitting on second and
sure footed Flynn sitting on third.
From thousands of throats there rose
these yells,
Mounting to the mountaintops and moving to the dell,
Heavy on the hillside
and hearable upon the flat.
For Casey, mighty Casey came
coolly to bat.
Pleasantly did Casey
pull himself to his place;
Pride was perfectly clear as prince like
Casey pranced.
And responding to the roars right away he removed
his hat.
The belief was building that
the batter was Casey.
All the fans focused
as from the ground he found dirt,
And tons of tongues
told of happiness.
Then the hapless hurler's hip held the
ball.
Cold defiance came
from Casey's curling lip.
And speedily the spheroid sped through
space.
"Stop! Not my stuff."
"Strike," the umpired said.
From the benches bunches of buddies
blasted the call,
like waves washing
wondrously on a distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the ump!" called the
crowd calamitously.
Right then the righteous Casey
raised his right hand.
With a small smile
that shone of some charity,
He knew to stop the noise and now the
game newly began.
He waved to the warrior, and wanted
the war to resume.
"Strike two," stated the ump for still Casey sat unmoving.
"Fraud," cried fitfully the
fans who hated fraud.
But Casey cooled the crowd carefully creating
calm.
The features of his face finally
froze so cold.
The ball would not be
blasting by him again.
And heavily the pitcher has to hurl the ball homeward
And the sheer powers
shatters the shimmering air.
Oh, somewhere on these shores the sun is shining surely.
Somewhere some souls
are surely smiling.
But no more mirth in Mudville, mighty Casey has messed up.
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