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 viewto 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 onsomewhat hunger-proof.
The current scandals of the day
Dont trouble youyou seem to take
Things in the coolest sort of way
And wisestfor you have no ache.
You smoke a pipeof 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 peopletake 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 loversdusky 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 bestalthough
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 muchthe 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 certainstill 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.
