Published: Brooklyn Eagle (08/19/1883)

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.

A Baseball Ballad