Black Lizzie

The gloved and jewelled bards who sing     Of Pippa, Maud, and Dorothea,     Have hardly done the handsome thing     For you, my inky Cytherea.     Flower of a land whose sunny skies     Are like the dome of Dantes clime,     They might have praised your lips, your eyes,     And, eke, your ankles in their rhyme!     But let them pass! To right your wrong,     Aspasia of the ardent South,     Your poet means to sing a song     With some prolixity of mouth.     Ill even sketch you as you are     In Herricks style of carelessness,     Not overstocked with things that bar     An ample view to wit, with dress.     You have your blanket, it is true;     But then, if I am right at all,     What best would suit a dame like you     Was worn by Eve before the Fall.     Indeed, the fashion is a thing     That never cramped your cornless toes:     Your single jewel is a ring     Slung in your penetrated nose.     I cant detect the flowing lines     Of Grecian features in your face,     Nor are there patent any signs     That link you with the Roman race.     In short, I do not think your mould     Resembles, with its knobs of bone,     The fair Hellenic shapes of old     Whose perfect forms survive in stone.     Still, if the charm called Beauty lies     In ampleness of ear and lip,     And nostrils of exceeding size,     You are a gem, my ladyship!     Here, squatting by the doubtful flame     Of three poor sticks, without a roof     Above your head, impassive dame     You live on somewhat hunger-proof.     The current scandals of the day     Dont trouble you you seem to take     Things in the coolest sort of way     And wisest for you have no ache.     You smoke a pipe of course, you do!     About an inch in length or less,     Which, from a sexual point of view,     Mars somehow your attractiveness.     But, rather than resign the weed,     Youd shock us, whites, by chewing it;     For etiquette is not indeed     A thing that bothers you a bit.     Your people take them as a whole     Are careless on the score of grace;     And hence you neednt comb your poll     Or decorate your unctuous face.     Still, seeing that a little soap     Would soften an excess of tint,     Youll pardon my advance, I hope,     In giving you a gentle hint.     You have your lovers dusky beaux     Not made of the poetic stuff     That sports an Apollonian nose,     And wears a sleek Byronic cuff.     But rather of a rougher clay     Unmixed with overmuch romance,     Far better at the wildwood fray     Than spinning in a ballroom dance.     These scarcely are the sonneteers     That sing their loves in faultless clothes:     Your friends have more decided ears     And more capaciousness of nose.     No doubt they suit you best although     They woo you roughly it is said:     Their way of courtship is a blow     Struck with a nullah on the head.     It doesnt hurt you much the thing     Is hardly novel to your life;     And, sans the feast and marriage ring,     You make a good impromptu wife.     This hasty sort of wedding might,     In other cases, bring distress;     But then, your drapers bills are light     Youre frugal in regard to dress.     You have no passion for the play,     Or park, or other showy scenes;     And, hence, you have no scores to pay,     And live within your husbands means.     Of course, his income isnt large,     And not too certain still you thrive     By steering well inside the marge,     And keep your little ones alive.     In short, in some respects you set     A fine example; and a few     Of those white matrons I have met     Would show some sense by copying you.     Here let us part! I will not say,     O lady free from scents and starch,     That you are like, in any way,     The authoress of Middlemarch.     One cannot match her perfect phrase     With commonplaces from your lip;     And yet there are some sexual traits     That show your dim relationship.     Indeed, in spite of all the mists     That grow from social codes, I see     The liberal likeness which exists     Throughout our whole humanity.     And though Ive laughed at your expense,     O Dryad of the dusky race,     No man who has a heart and sense     Would bring displeasure to your face.