Ann Taylor

(30 January 1782 - 20 December 1866 / Colchester, England)

Ann Taylor Poems

1. Washing And Dressing 4/1/2010
2. The Spider 4/1/2010
3. The Little Negro 4/1/2010
4. The Child’s Monitor 4/1/2010
5. The Good-Natured Girls 4/1/2010
6. The Holidays 4/1/2010
7. The Orphan 4/1/2010
8. The Wooden Doll And The Wax Doll 4/1/2010
9. The Village Green 4/1/2010
10. The Gaudy Flower 4/1/2010
11. The Violet 4/1/2010
12. The Disappointment 4/1/2010
13. The Little Cripple's Complaint 1/3/2003
14. Finery 4/1/2010
15. The Washing And Dressing 1/3/2003
16. Frances Keeps Her Promise 4/1/2010
17. The Butterfly 4/1/2010
18. George And The Chimney-Sweep 4/1/2010
19. The Pin 1/3/2003
20. Greedy Richard 4/1/2010
21. James And The Shoulder Of Mutton 4/1/2010
22. Come And Play In The Garden 4/1/2010
23. The Boys And The Apple-Tree 4/1/2010
24. The Apple-Tree 4/1/2010
25. Careless Mathilda 4/1/2010
26. Mischief 4/1/2010
27. Sleepy Harry 4/1/2010
28. The Cut 1/3/2003
29. Sophia’s Fool’s-Cap 4/1/2010
30. The Field Daisy 1/3/2003
31. To A Little Girl That Has Told A Lie 1/3/2003
32. The Vulgar Little Lady 1/3/2003
33. Dirty Jim 4/1/2010
34. The Chatterbox 1/3/2003
35. Deaf Martha 1/3/2003
36. Negligent Mary 4/1/2010
37. The Cow 1/3/2003
38. About The Little Girl That Beat Her Sister 1/3/2003
39. Jane And Eliza 1/3/2003
40. Learning To Go Alone 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Ann Taylor

My Mother

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.


When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,
My Mother?

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall ...

Read the full of My Mother

The Chatterbox

From morning till night it was Lucy's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping:
There was not a day but she rattled away,
Like water for ever a-dropping.

No matter at all if the subjects were small,
Or not worth the trouble of saying,
'Twas equal to her, she would talking prefer
To working, or reading, or playing.

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