Janet Little
Janet Little Poems
CELIA, fair, beyond description,
Soon became the fav'rite toast;
Charms unrival'd ev'n by fiction,
Did the lovely maiden boast.
...
BY Cupid and Bacchus I'm sadly perplex'd,
Both parties to hear I incline:
The urchin for ever comments on this text,
...
JOIN now Apollo the harmonious strain,
O Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train;
Once more conspire to aid my humble lays,
...
SOME folk in courts for pleasure sue,
An' some ransack the theatre:
The airy nymph is won by few;
She's of so coy a nature.
...
O JANET, by your kind permission,
My muse, in tatter'd low condition,
Would fain attempt, if you'll allow,
...
I.
FROM the dull confines of a country shade,
A rustic damsel issues forth her lays;
...
AS round the room, with tentless speed,
Young Delia tripp'd it finely,
A looking-glass, so Fate decreed,
She broke, but not design'dly.
...
WHAT means this silent, solitary gloom?
All nature in her dishabille appears;
Contracted flow'rets yield no sweet perfume,
...
OUR regal seat to Edward fallen a prey,
Our Chief's insulted corse his victim lay;
Our ruin'd land no monument could raise;
...
YOUNG William once the blithest of the swains,
That grac'd the flow'ry bank, or trode the plains;
Not rustic, but from affectation free,
...
TO-DAY old wrinkl'd Time appears;
A smile adorns his brow,
While to our list of fleeting years,
He adds the ninety-two.
...
DEAR madam, with joy I read over your letter;
Your kindness still tends to confirm me your debtor;
...
WHILE sickness, madam, on your vitals prey'd,
The sympathetic sisters shar'd your pain:
I mark'd them then in sable weeds array'd,
...
FROM HIS MISTRESS.
IN awful solitude, in direful chains,
Where deep despair and sad reflection reigns,
...
I.
HAIL meek-ey'd maid! of matchless worth!
Our best companion here on earth;
...
WHEN AT
MOFFAT WELL.
ON the delightful banks of Mein,
The muse laments in pensive strain;
...
ARMEDA.
WHY dost thou Sylvia pensive sit?
Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow?
Oft hast thou cheer'd us by thy wit,
...
WILL gentle LOUDOUN deign to lend an ear,
When nature speaks, and sorrow drops a tear?
Within your walls my happiness I found
...
WHAT tongue can half my woes express?
What force of eloquence can tell?
The causes of my deep distress
...
Janet Little Biography
Janet Little, later Janet Richmond, (1759 - March 15, 1813), known as The Scotch Milkmaid, was a Scottish poet who wrote in the Scots language. Born in Ecclefechan, she enjoyed a "common education" and, as an assistant to local clergy, was able to exercise her love of reading and writing. By the 1780s she had gained a reputation as a "rustic poetess". Her employer, Mrs Frances Dunlop, recommended her poetry to Robert Burns. Burns, who had recently been inundated by a swarm of untalented imitators, was initially wary, but he later assisted Mrs Dunlop in publishing Little's poetry. One source describes her as 'a very tall masculine woman, with dark hair, and features somewhat course.' Little's most notable patron, apart from Burns and Mrs Dunlop, was James Boswell. Some time in the early 1790s, Little married John Richmond (died 1819), a widower more than eighteen years her senior. She continued to write until her death in 1813 of "a cramp in the stomach".)
The Best Poem Of Janet Little
The Lottery Ticket
CELIA, fair, beyond description,
Soon became the fav'rite toast;
Charms unrival'd ev'n by fiction,
Did the lovely maiden boast.
Beaux and sages, panting, dying,
Did of love and her complain,
While the nymph, his darts defying,
Triumph'd o'er her thousands slain.
With their woes too rashly sporting,
Still more fatal darts were sought;
Anxious to augment her fortune,
She a lott'ry-ticket bought.
But old Plutus, sullen power,
Can the fair and brave withstand;
He, in the delusive hour,
Shov'd a blank to Celia's hand:
While Brunetta, short of stature,
Limbs distorted, shoulders round,
Gain'd new charms, in spite of Nature,
By good thirty thousand pound.
Celia now, with looks dejected,
Seem'd the erring wheel to blame,
When the god, with brows erected,
Did a moment's audience claim.
Go bright Celia, fair and cruel,
Still of countless charms secure,
Would you heedless add more fuel
To the flames you will not cure?
View the maid to grief inclined,
Though she grasps the golden prize,
O how gladly she'd resign it,
For the conquests of your eyes!
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4/30/2024 12:03:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
