The Winter League is here again, and in his native town
The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.
Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting,
And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting,
Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band,
And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand.
O'Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer,
And got a prince's ransom for the work he did last Summer,
Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets,
And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats.
McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season,
And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason,
Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard
By drawing down a salary of five a week and board.
McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases,
And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces,
Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters’ gaze,
And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days.
The Winter League is here again, and in his native town
The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.