Poem – The Washing And Dressing – Ann Taylor

Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 

And cry, and look sulky, and pout? 

To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 

I can’t even kiss her without. 
You say you don’t like to be wash’d and be dress’d, 

But would you not wish to be clean? 

Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 

This face is not fit to be seen. 
If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head, 

And the soap has got into your eye, 

Will the water grow warmer for all that you’ve said? 

And what good will it do you to cry? 
It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet, 

But only for kindness and care, 

That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat, 

And comb out your tanglesome hair. 
I don’t mind the trouble, if you would not cry, 

But pay me for all with a kiss; 

That’s right — ­take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 

I thought you’d be good after this.

Poem – The Spider – Ann Taylor

‘OH, look at that great ugly spider!’ said Ann; 

And screaming, she brush’d it away with her fan; 

”Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, 

I wish that it would not come crawling on me. ‘ 
‘Indeed,’ said her mother, ‘I’ll venture to say, 

The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; 

For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, 

It has much more occasion than you to complain. 
‘But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? 

If it hurt you, there’d be some excuse for your fear; 

But its little black legs, as it hurried away, 

Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say. 
‘For them to fear us we must grant to be just, 

Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; 

But certainly we have no cause for alarm; 

For, were they to try, they could do us no harm. 
‘Now look! it has got to its home; do you see 

What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? 

Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: 

Come learn from this spider what patience can do! 
‘And when at your business you’re tempted to play, 

Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, 

Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, 

That a poor little spider is wiser than you. ‘

Poem -Negligent Mary – Ann Taylor 

AH, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care? 

And why is she left on the floor? 

Forsaken, and cover’d with dust, I declare; 

With you I must trust her no more. 
I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, 

When on your birthday she was sent; 

Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly? 

Was that, do you think, what I meant? 
With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted, 

And trimm’d it so pretty with pink; 

But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted: 

Her nurse quite forgets her, I think. 
Suppose now–for Mary is dolly to me, 

Whom I love to see tidy and fair– 

Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see, 

In tatters, and comfortless there. 
But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, 

Nor cares for her negligent nurse: 

If I were as careless as you are, I fear, 

Your lot, and my fault, would be worse. 
And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive 

To check every fault that I see: 

Mary’s doll is but waxen–mamma’s is alive, 

And of far more importance than she.

Poem – Greedy Richard – Ann Taylor 

‘I THINK I want some pies this morning,’ 

Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning; 

So down he threw his slate and books, 

And saunter’d to the pastry-cook’s. 
And there he cast his greedy eyes 

Round on the jellies and the pies, 

So to select, with anxious care, 

The very nicest that was there. 
At last the point was thus decided: 

As his opinion was divided 

‘Twixt pie and jelly, being loth 

Either to leave, he took them both. 
Now Richard never could be pleased 

To stop when hunger was appeased, 

But would go on to eat still more 

When he had had an ample store. 
‘No, not another now,’ said Dick; 

‘Dear me, I feel extremely sick: 

I cannot even eat this bit; 

I wish I had not tasted it. ‘ 
Then slowing rising from his seat, 

He threw his cheesecake in the street, 

And left the tempting pastry-cook’s 

With very discontented looks. 
Just then a man with wooden leg 

Met Dick, and held his hat to beg; 

And while he told his mournful case, 

Look’d at him with imploring face. 
Dick, wishing to relieve his pain, 

His pockets search’d, but search’d in vain; 

And so at last he did declare, 

He had not left a farthing there. 
The beggar turn’d with face of grief, 

And look of patient unbelief, 

While Richard now his folly blamed, 

And felt both sorry and ashamed. 
‘I wish,’ said he (but wishing’s vain), 

‘I had my money back again, 

And had not spent my last, to pay 

For what I only threw away. 
‘Another time, I’ll take advice, 

And not buy things because they’re nice; 

But rather save my little store, 

To give to those who want it more. ‘

Poem – My Mother – Ann Taylor

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 reward they care, 

My Mother. 
When thou art feeble, old and grey, 

My healthy arm shall be thy stay, 

And I will soothe thy pains away, 

My Mother.

Poem – The Cow – Ann Taylor

Thank you, pretty cow,

 that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, 

Every day and every night, 

Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. 
Do not chew the hemlock rank, 

Growing on the weedy bank; 

But the yellow cowslips eat; 

They perhaps will make it sweet. 
Where the purple violet grows, 

Where the bubbling water flows, 

Where the grass is fresh and fine, 

Pretty cow, go there to dine.

Poem – My Mother – Ann Taylor

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 reward they care,
My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
Ann Taylor