Black Lizzie
The gloved and jewelled bards who singOf Pippa, Maud, and Dorothea,Have hardly done the handsome thingFor you, my inky Cytherea.
Flower of a land whose sunny skiesAre like the dome of Dante’s 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 songWith some prolixity of mouth.
I’ll even sketch you as you areIn Herrick’s style of carelessness,Not overstocked with things that barAn 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 youWas worn by Eve before the Fall.
Indeed, the “fashion” is a thingThat never cramped your cornless toes:Your single jewel is a ringSlung in your penetrated nose.
I can’t detect the flowing linesOf Grecian features in your face,Nor are there patent any signsThat link you with the Roman race.
In short, I do not think your mouldResembles, with its knobs of bone,The fair Hellenic shapes of oldWhose perfect forms survive in stone.
Still, if the charm called Beauty liesIn ampleness of ear and lip,And nostrils of exceeding size,You are a gem, my ladyship!
Here, squatting by the doubtful flameOf three poor sticks, without a roofAbove your head, impassive dameYou live on—somewhat hunger-proof.
The current scandals of the dayDon’t trouble you—you seem to takeThings 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,You’d shock us, whites, by chewing it;For etiquette is not indeedA thing that bothers you a bit.
Your people—take them as a whole—Are careless on the score of grace;And hence you needn’t comb your pollOr decorate your unctuous face.
Still, seeing that a little soapWould soften an excess of tint,You’ll pardon my advance, I hope,In giving you a gentle hint.
You have your lovers—dusky beauxNot made of the poetic stuffThat sports an Apollonian nose,And wears a sleek Byronic cuff.
But rather of a rougher clayUnmixed with overmuch romance,Far better at the wildwood frayThan spinning in a ballroom dance.
These scarcely are the sonneteersThat sing their loves in faultless clothes:Your friends have more decided earsAnd more capaciousness of nose.
No doubt they suit you best—althoughThey woo you roughly it is said:Their way of courtship is a blowStruck with a nullah on the head.
It doesn’t hurt you much—the thingIs 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 draper’s bills are light—You’re 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 husband’s means.
Of course, his income isn’t large,—And not too certain—still you thriveBy steering well inside the marge,And keep your little ones alive.
In short, in some respects you setA fine example; and a fewOf those white matrons I have metWould 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 phraseWith commonplaces from your lip;And yet there are some sexual traitsThat show your dim relationship.
Indeed, in spite of all the mistsThat grow from social codes, I seeThe liberal likeness which existsThroughout our whole humanity.
And though I’ve laughed at your expense,O Dryad of the dusky race,No man who has a heart and senseWould bring displeasure to your face.