What do you want to be?

"What do you want to be?" is nursery rhyme by acclaimed author “Auntie” Alice C. H. Tankard.

The text reads as follows.

## What do you want to be?

"What do you want to be? asked the proud Dwarf father as he put his son to bed.

The son, unsure, looked up at him and in reply he said.

I want to be a Barbarian and guard the Northern wastes.

I find the towns and cities too crowded for my tastes.

A fine path, said the father; for they are brave and bold,

though their rough ways can seem strange, when they come in from the cold.

Then I shall be a Bard; known throughout the Land.

Travelling between the Southern cities and playing with my band.

There is no coin in that my son and Bards are not well regarded.

For any man who favours art is surely Fey, or else retarded.

If renown is what’s important, then a Cleric I shall be.

I’ll preach the Morndinsamman and all will respect me.

Nothing would make me prouder than for you to be held is such esteem.

But lest ye be touched by Moradin, then this is but a dream.

Then perhaps I’ll be a Druid, a protector of the wild.

They are favoured in the untamed lands for they are nature’s child.

Favour amongst the savages is not akin to great respect.

To those in the city there’s no difference ‘tween a circle and a sect.

A Fighter then, exclaimed the boy, a soldier or a guard.

I know I’m not the strongest, but I’ll work extra hard.

Whilst it’s true that a man in the army can be all that he can be,

most live and die within the rank and file, so let’s call that plan B.

Should I become a Monk, and learn of martial arts?

I’ll travel the world, spreading Moradin’s word to all the distant parts.

I would not abide of such a thing within my own family.

If you leave in search of enlightenment, you will not return to me.

I jest, I jest. I meant a Paladin; protector of those in need.

I’ll swear an oath to protect the Empire, upon my loyal steed.

It would honour me to see my son in service of the realm,

but alas we do not have the right clan name, nor a sigil for your helm.

If you wish to see me serve then I could become a Ranger,

venturing into the unmapped lands and scouting them for danger.

Worthy work indeed, for which you must be skilled.

You’ll find renown in the wildlands, that is, if you’re not killed.

Maybe I’ll become a Rogue, said the boy with a glint in his eye;

a thief or a dangerous pirate, swashbuckling in the sky.

The father chuckled gently; you read too many tall tales.

The only place that you’ll find thieves is in Armiste, or in our gaols.

I wish I were a Sorcerer, with magic in my veins.

My powers would come from draconic blood, or from celestial planes.

My boy, you are not Dragonborn, and amongst our kind it’s rare

to develop such abilities, without the utmost care.

Not if I were a Warlock, who made a pact with the unknown.

A craven act it may be, but think what they are shown.

Do not joke of such things. To take them lightly would be a mistake.

If someone were to overhear you, you could end up on the stake.

Then I’ll train to be a Wizard, and learn magic in all its diversity.

Through hard work and study, I’ll go to the best university.

You would have to extremely gifted, to get into Bezmadanbaor U.

If you falter in your studies, then it’ll be Armiste for you.

By now the boy was growing tired, so he said what his dad wished to hear

and he could see his father beam with pride and in his eye, a single tear.

An inventor, an alchemist, a battle smith and everything in between,

to see their child become an Artificer was every parents dream."