Ann Taylor

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

Ann Taylor Poems

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

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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

Deaf Martha

Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey,
And her hearing has left her for many a year;
Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say,
Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear.

I've seen naughty children run after her fast,
And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;"
And when she was frighten'd, ­laugh at her at last,
Because she believed the sad stories they told.

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