A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 89-91.

This e-text is part of the Works section of the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

XML created for the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

Typography, spelling, capitalization, and punctuation have been cautiously modernized. The source of the text is given and all significant editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. This text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Library of Congress Name Authority File (LCNAF) text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; text-align: right; text-align: left; display: inline font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;
A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT . NOW in thy dazzled half-op'd eye , Thy curled nose and lip awry , Up-hoisted arms and noddling head , And little chin with crystal spread , Poor helpless thing ! what do I see , That I should sing of thee ? From thy poor tongue no accents come , Which can but rub thy toothless gum : Small understanding boasts thy face , Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace : A few short words thy feats may tell , And yet I love thee well . When wakes the sudden bitter shriek , And redder swells thy little cheek ; When rattled keys thy woes beguile , And through thine eye-lids gleams the smile , Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint . But when thy friends are in distress , Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless , Nor with kind sympathy be smitten , Though all are sad but thee and kitten ; Yet , puny varlet that thou art , Thou twitchest at the heart . Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm ; Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm ; Thy silken locks that scantly peep , With gold-tipp'd ends , where circles deep , Around thy neck in harmless grace , So soft and sleekly hold their place , Might harder hearts with kindness fill , And gain our right goodwill . Each passing clown bestows his blessing , Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing ; E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense when thou art by ; And yet , I think , whoe'er they be , They love thee not like me . Perhaps when time shall add a few Short months to thee thou'lt love me too ; And after that , through life's long way , Become my sure and cheering stay ; Will care for me and be my hold , When I am weak and old . Thou'lt listen to my lengthened tale , And pity me when I am frail Feeble . In this sense the word is often applied in Scotland . — But see , the sweepy spinning fly , Upon the window takes thine eye . Go to thy little senseless play ; Thou dost not heed my lay .