"To the last hour of her life she was an excellent spinner; and latterly, the peculiar kind of wool "which she spun was brought exclusively for her, as being the only one in the village who exercised their industry on so fine a sort. During the tearful paroxysms of her last depression she spun with the utmost violence, and with vehemence exclaimed— ' I must spin! '; A paralytic affection struck her whole right side while at work, and obliged her to quit her spindle when only half filled, and she died within a fortnight afterwards! I have that spindle now. She was buried on the last day of the year 1804. She returned from her visit to London on Friday the 29th of June, just, to a day, twenty-three years after she brought me to London, which was also on a Friday, in the year 1781.
TO A SPINDLE.
Relic! I will not bow to thee, nor worship!
Yet, treasure as thou art, remembrancer
Of sunny days, that ever haunt my dreams.
When thy brown felloes as a task I twirl'd.
And sung my ditties, ere the Farm receiv'd
My vagrant foot, and with its liberty
And all its cheerful buds and opening flow'r?
Had taught my heart to wander.—
Relic of affection, come;
Thou shalt a moral teach to me and mine.
