Born in Marston St Lawrence, Northamptonshire, in 1722, Mary Leapor, the author of this week's poem, "The Epistle of Deborah Dough", has more than a county in common with John Clare. Leapor's background was humble, like Clare's. She was never fêted in her lifetime, but later her work fulfilled the fashionable demand for the "natural poet". In the words John Dunscombe wrote more than 40 years after her death, she was "a most extraordinary uncultivated genius".

She was not uncultivated, and did not blush entirely unseen. She had a not-very-wealthy patron, Bridget Fremantle, a rector's daughter, who tried to raise funds for the publication of a volume of verse. The poignant "An Epistle to a Lady" is probably addressed to Fremantle and, as it implies, her friend's efforts were unsuccessful.

Leapor often referred to herself in her poems as Mira, but nothing miraculous happened to her, apart from her talent. She succumbed to an attack of measles at the age of 24, dying even younger than John Keats. Eventually, Fremantle's efforts were rewarded, though, and two posthumous collections of Leapor's poems were published.

Entirely self-taught, Leapor read widely and took Alexander Pope as her initial model. Her graceful, witty and vivid poems seem evidence of a great natural ability that blossomed early, but might have reached even finer accomplishment. She was a kitchen maid who not only dreamed of becoming a playwright, but in fact completed a tragedy. "The Epistle of Deborah Dough" is certainly evidence of a sharp ear for the vernacular. It's not a reflection of Leapor's own poetic voice or grammar. The "Epistle" is a letter-poem, written in persona.

Deborah Dough comes alive at once, an amusing, earthy character, immersed in the practicalities of life – especially those connected with food. She is vastly indifferent to poetry, and Leapor has a lot of exasperated fun satirising the prejudices of the un-lettered (and possibly the lettered, too) concerning women who "sit scribble scribble all the day".

Chatty non sequiturs give way fairly quickly to Deborah's scornful introduction of her poet neighbour. Leapor calls her by her own name, Mary, since Mira would be too grand in this context. Mary's concentration on her verse produces, Deborah says, struggling for words, "something like December". That word may have been seized on for its rhyme, but the result is also metonymic, since "December" summons the chilly poverty that may ensue from neglected practicalities. Deborah Dough's subsequent boasting about her daughter's attributes produces a lovely little portrait of 17th century housewifery, with the emphasis on culinary skills – the stewing of apples, bacon-boiling and pancake-frying. Cicely's kitchen, unlike Mary's, presumably, is aglow with seasonal produce and bustling activity.

Leapor warms to her theme of literary ignorance as she provides Deborah Dough with yet another pesky rhyme-making intruder. Could this be a parody of some inept Scriblerian?

Deborah's neighbours, more respectful of a man, imagine this poet to be a kind of magician, though Deborah herself reserves her judgment, shifting from conviction to doubt and back again. Ever practical, the local women use his rhymes as charms and cures. Now we know the origins of the current trend in anthologies with titles like "Emergency Kit".

There are more references to food, as the male poet extends his magical range by throwing his wife's obviously over-set cheesecake onto the flagstones, and eating scalding porridge. Porridge, interestingly, is a plural noun here. Perhaps this reflects 18th century usage, though it may be another instance of Dough's countrified grammar.

The poem ends, as it begins, with the social formalities, expressed in a lively and warm-hearted manner. I can't help rather liking Deborah Dough, and Leapor, I fancy, liked her invention too. The satire is gentle, while making it clear that a working-class woman poet had much prejudice to contend with, including that of her own sex.

Elsewhere, Leapor expresses greater bitterness; for instance, the conclusion of "An Essay on Woman": "Yet, with ten thousand follies to her charge,/ Unhappy woman's but a slave at large." Here, through the cheerful figure of Deborah Dough, she suggests that her short life, however harsh and frustrating, was not without its sensuous pleasures, friendship and laughter.

The Epistle of Deborah Dough

Dearly beloved Cousin, these
Are sent to thank you for your cheese;
The price of oats is greatly fell:
I hope your children all are well
(Likewise the calf you take delight in),
As I am at this present writing.
But I've no news to send you now;
Only I've lost my brindled cow,
And that has greatly sunk my dairy.
But I forgot our neighbour Mary;
Our neighbour Mary – who, they say,
Sits scribble-scribble all the day,
And making – what – I can't remember
But sure 'tis something like December;
A frosty morning – let me see –
O! now I have it to a T:
She throws away her precious time
In scrawling nothing else but rhyme,
Of which, they say, she's mighty proud,
And lifts her nose above the crowd;
Though my young daughter Cicely
Is taller by a foot than she,
And better learned (as people say);
Can knit a stocking in a day;
Can make a pudding, plump and rare,
And boil her bacon to a hair;
Will coddle apples nice and green,
And fry her pancakes – like a queen.

   But there's a man that keeps a dairy
Will clip the wings of neigbour Mary:
Things wonderful they talk of him,
But I've a notion 'tis a whim.
Howe'er, 'tis certain he can make
Your rhymes as thick as plums in cake;
Nay more, they say that from the pot
He'll take his porridge scalding hot,
And drink 'em down – and yet they tell ye
Those porridge shall not burn his belly;
A cheesecake o'er his head he'll throw,
And when 'tis on the stones below,
It shan't be found so much as quaking,
Provided 'tis of his wife's making.
From this some people would infer
That this good man's a conjuror:
But I believe it is a lie;
I never thought him so, not I,
Though Win'fred Hobble who, you know,
Is plagued with corns on every toe,
Sticks on his verse with fastening spittle,
And says it helps her feet a little.
Old Frances too his paper tears
And tucks it close behind her ears;
And (as she told me t'other day)
It charmed her toothache quite away.

   Now as thou'rt better learned than me,
Dear Cos', I leave it all to thee,
To judge about this puzzling man,
And ponder wisely – for you can.

   Now, Cousin, I must let you know
That, while my name is Deborah Dough,
I shall be always glad to see ye,
And what I have, I'll freely gi' ye.

   'Tis one o'clock, as I'm a sinner,
The boys are all come home to dinner,
And I must bid you now farewell.
I pray remember me to Nell;
And for your friend I'd have you know
Your loving Cousin,
          DEBORAH DOUGH