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Voice Over • Animation
6

Description

A sampling of voice accents

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English (North American)

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

Australian, England - Received Pronunciation (RP, BBC), Scottish

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day The score stood 4-2 with but one aiming more to play, And then when Cooney died at 1st, and Barrows did the same. A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest clung to that 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 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 men saw what had occurred, there was jimmy safe at second and Flynn a hugging third. Then from 5000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell! It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell, it knocked upon the mountains 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! 10,000 eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. 5000 tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. Then, while the routing picture ground the ball into his hip, defiance, claimed in cases I a sneer curled Casey's lip, and now the leather covered sphere came hurtling through the air, and Casey stood a watching it in haughty grandeur there, close by the sturdy batsman. The ball unheeded, sped. That ain't my style, said Casey. Strike one! The umpire said. From 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 stand. It's likely they'd have killed him, had Casey not raised his hand with a smile of christian charity. Great Casey's visits shown he's still his 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 crowd. The madman, thousands and echo answered fraud. But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was odd. 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. The snare was gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, he pounds with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate, 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 the favorite 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.