Robert Browning is our editor’s choice poet for this chilly weekend, for his poem
“How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
‘Good speed!’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with ‘Yet there is time!’

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ‘Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,
We’ll remember at Aix’—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And ‘Gallop,’ gasped Joris, ‘for Aix is in sight!’

‘How they’ll greet us!’—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Comments by the redoubtable Ira Maine, Poetry Editor

Robert Browning, English poet and playwright was born in London in 1812. His early work was much admired by both Dickens and Wordsworth but as time went on, Browning’s work tended to become more and more obscure, to the point where his reputation markedly declined.

Then along came Elizabeth Barrett, six years older than Browning and an already highly accomplished poet with an established reputation in both Britain and the US. In 1846 they married and Browning’s work began to display a steady improvement. Elizabeth died in 1861, by which time Browning’s reputation was made. By this time there were Browning Societies all over the country where his work was being studied long before the man himself  had died. This was very unusual, the very best possible tribute and a sure sign of his importance in the literary society of his day. Elizabeth Barrett had a huge hand in the remaking of Browning. A guiding hand, and the occasional literary kick up the derriere, skillfully administered, might have persuaded Mr Browning to desist from obscure literary posturing and to get on with it. Great men, in a vast number of cases, are only great because of love, a good clip round the ear and subtle female guidance.

Most kids of my vintage galloped through Browning’s poem ‘How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix’ at school, and it’s a great compliment to Browning that bits of this poem still remain firmly lodged in our memories.

Browning freely admitted that the whole poem is made up, pure invention, and there never was a bit of crucial ‘…News…’ to cause a breakneck horseback chase from Ghent to Aix (Aachen) in Belgium. He wrote it, he tells us simply to evoke the thundering breathlessness of galloping horses. In this he succeeds almost too well because the poem almost cries out to be parodied.

The authors of the best selling ‘1066 and All That’, R.J. Yeatman and W.C.Sellar, took time off to have fun with this Browning poem and their version is called-

HOW I BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM AIX TO GHENT (AND VICE VERSA)

I sprang to the rollocks and Jorrocks and me,
And I galloped, you galloped, he galloped, we galloped all three…
Not a word to each other, we kept changing place,
Neck to neck, back to front, ear to ear, face to face:
And we yelled once or twice when we heard a clock chime,
‘Would you kindly oblige us, is that the right time?’

As I galloped,you galloped, he galloped, we galloped, ye
Galloped, they too shall have galloped;  Let us trot.
I unsaddled the saddle, unbuckled the bit,
Unshackled the bridle (the thing didn’t fit)
And ungalloped, ungalloped, ungalloped, ungalloped a bit.
Then I cast off my bluff-coat, let my bowler hat fall,
Took off both my boots and my trousers and all-

Drank off my stirrup-cup, felt a bit tight,
And unbridled the saddle: it still wasn’t right.
Then all I remember is things reeling round
As I sat with my head twixt my ears on the ground-
For imagine my shame when they asked what I meant
And I had to confess that I’d been, gone and went
And forgotten the news I was bringing to Ghent

Though I’d galloped, and galloped and galloped and
Galloped and galloped
And galloped and galloped and galloped. (Had I not would have been galloped?)

ENVOI

So I sprang to a taxi and shouted ‘To Aix!’
And he blew on his horn and he threw off his brakes,
And all the way back til my money was spent
We rattled and rattled and rattled and rattled and
Rattled
And rattled and rattled-
And eventually sent a telegram.