Ann Taylor

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

Ann Taylor Poems

41. Learning To Go Alone 1/3/2003
42. For A Naughty Little Girl 1/3/2003
43. A True Story 1/3/2003
44. Meddlesome Matty 1/3/2003
45. The Baby's Dance 1/3/2003
46. My Mother 4/1/2010

Comments about Ann Taylor

  • Courtney (4/21/2019 10:35:00 AM)

    U r so creative and emotional that you can make good songs thanks

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  • DeAnna Gage Sullivan (1/9/2019 9:24:00 AM)

    love mom

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  • Robin Taylor Gilbert (8/27/2018 8:43:00 AM)

    Although the portrait gives the appearance of being associated with the Wikipedia article the text of which you have reprinted, which I wrote, I certainly did not supply the portrait. I do, however, own one of the copies of the smaller crayon portrait above it done by her son Josiah in her old age.

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  • Robin Taylor Gilbert (8/27/2018 7:25:00 AM)

    What is the evidence that this is a (photographic) portrait of Ann Taylor (Ann Gilbert as she would have been by then) , my 2xgreat-grandmother? It doesn’t look like authenticated portraits of her &, when she was the age of the woman portrayed (c.50?) , photographic portraits wd have been rare indeed.

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  • US QUEEN NOBLE DEANNA GAGE SULLIVAN (5/31/2018 4:22:00 AM)

    This is a COURT ORDER FINAL ACH DEPOSIT DOCKET .

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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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