19 March 2009

War Cry

Once more unto the crease, dear friends, once more;
Or close the goal up with our Bulldog dead.
In off-season there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Huffer;
Stiffen the laces, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
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 noblest Bulldogs.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Marinuccis,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in Duluth, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you 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:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for RWD, Duluth, and Saint Lessard!'

Shakespeare, Henry V Act III




Go get 'em, Dogs. Obi-Wan Kenobi commands it!

1 comment:

UMDDogz said...

Heh...even stayed in pentameter...for the most part. (That is if RWD is one syllable)