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Black Lizzie

by Henry Kendall

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 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 song

With some prolixity of mouth.

I'll even sketch you as you are

In Herrick's 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 can't 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

Don't 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,

You'd 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 needn't comb your poll

Or decorate your unctuous face.

Still, seeing that a little soap

Would soften an excess of tint,

You'll 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 doesn't 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 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 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 I've laughed at your expense,

O Dryad of the dusky race,

No man who has a heart and sense

Would bring displeasure to your face.