In a somer seson, • when soft was the sonne
The coche, gedraeg and heretoga • to the gamen-felde of baseball gonne
A hauene of habite • halewed by swete hey,
A meine riche in the reame ... • pytchers rowting reke their swevene.
I was were forwandred • and went me to reste
And sit by the midward-felde-gome • thrid aestandan side
I seigh a licht pytcher on a heigh-place • throwing ymaked palesye
To a betræpper there-inne • alrebest in bataile.
A faire felde ful of folke • fonde I there bytwene
Of alle maner of cnyssan-men, • the mighty and the mayme
Brucaning and cocking battes • as the coche asketh.
Some putten them neh the pytcher • for a claene anlepe pleyde.
In squatting and in swinging • swonken ther thikke alblast ful harde
Bifore a dampned noumpere • who deman to domesdaeg:
Hnitan aerest! Hnitan tueyne! • Hnitan alast! And oute!
Neist cnyssan-man hitte harde • to luft-felde: Home irun!
Among the watchers, • the wawe like a wal walters.
They standen and sitten • like a strand.
Neist a cnyssan-man of more conynge • clyppes to the comyns.
He bihotes to brothely • by-taht for the gedræg.
But the pytcher biloukes • the bryche segge in a bire,
With a fairehead of a falling sloder • fast to the egge of the plat.
A maistri withoutdyn mene • in midouernon,
Bitwix cleo-partie • with no hopand of speding.