In peace there's nothing so becomes a wargamer As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Disguise fair nature with hard favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect, Let it pry through the portage of the head Like a brass cannon; let the brow o'whelm it As fearfully as does a galled rock. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noble wargamer Whose blood is that of fathers who wrote the rules! Fathers who, like so many Alexanders, Have at these Conventions from morn 'til even fought, And pocketed their dice for lack of argument, Dishonour not your mothers, for did they not sit While those whom you call fathers painted their armies? Feel superior to players with troops in other scales, And teach them how to wargame. And you, good players, Whose hands were made for wargaming, show us here The mettle of your army; let us swear That they are worthy of your painting, which I doubt not; For there are none of them so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot! Rattle your dice! And upon this charge Cry God for Scruby! Featherstone! and H.G. Wells! Back to Table of Contents -- Courier #55 To Courier List of Issues To MagWeb Master Magazine List © Copyright 1991 by The Courier Publishing Company. This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other articles from military history and related magazines are available at http://www.magweb.com