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

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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