Joanna Baillie

(1762-1851 / Scotland)

Joanna Baillie Poems

161. Time And Friendship 4/15/2010
162. The Merry Bachelor 4/15/2010
163. Sunset Meditation, Under The Apprehension Of Approaching Blindness 4/15/2010
164. Sonnet 8 4/15/2010
165. Sir Maurice 4/15/2010
166. On Time 4/15/2010
167. On A Sprig Of Heath 4/15/2010
168. On Burning A Packet Of Letters Received From A Friend At An Early Period Of Life, Whose Correspondence Had Lapsed Into Silence, And Whose Friendship Into Apathy. 4/15/2010
169. Fy, Let Us A’ To The Wedding 4/15/2010
170. Lines On The Death Of William Sotheby, Esq 4/15/2010
171. A Song Written For An Irish Melody 4/15/2010
172. A Sailor’s Song 4/15/2010
173. A Portrait 4/15/2010
174. A Hymn 4/15/2010
175. Hope And Memory 4/15/2010
176. Devotional Song For A Negro Child 4/15/2010
177. To A Child 4/15/2010
178. To The Lark 4/15/2010
179. Lines To A Parrot 4/15/2010
180. Address To A Steam-Vessel 4/15/2010
181. Song #8 4/15/2010
182. William Wallace 4/15/2010
183. Belshazzar’s Feast 4/15/2010
184. The Outlaw's Song 1/4/2003
185. A Character 4/15/2010
186. On Memory 4/15/2010
187. Lines To A Teapot 4/15/2010
188. London 4/15/2010
189. A Mother To Her Waking Infant 4/15/2010
190. Hay-Making 4/15/2010
191. To The Rainbow 4/15/2010
192. A Winter Day 4/15/2010
193. A Summer Day 4/15/2010
194. Song, Woo’d And Married And A’ 4/15/2010
195. A Child To His Sick Grandfather 4/15/2010

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Best Poem of Joanna Baillie

A Child To His Sick Grandfather

GRAND-DAD , they say you're old and frail,
Your stiffened legs begin to fail:
Your staff, no more my pony now,
Supports your body bending low,
While back to wall you lean so sad,
I'm vex'd to see you, Dad.
You used to smile and stroke my head,
And tell me how good children did;
But now, I wot not how it be,
You take me seldom on your knee,
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad,
To sit beside you, Dad.
How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
Scant are the white hairs on your crown:
How wan and hollow are your cheeks,
Your brow is crossed with many ...

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The Outlaw's Song

THE chough and crow to roost are gone,
   The owl sits on the tree,
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,
   Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
   The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
   It is our op'ning day.

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