Works

It comes in my head to write out some Verses I made when I was first married, and M^r Thrale left me to spend a Day or two with some Friends at Harrow on the Hill. I used to divert myself in those Days by spinning, and in Fact did spin a Pair of brown Thread Stockings; which I afterwards knit, and then mark’d, so that from beginning to ending they were all my own Manufactury : my poor Dear Son wore them often, and had them on the Morning that he died; I flung them in the fire that nobody else might ever wear them after his Death. This Amusement is alluded to in the following Verses.

While Harrow’s happier Groves detain
Your ling’ring Steps from Streatham’s Plain,
To think or write of ought were vain
    But Harrow on the Hill;

In vain as home last Night we flew
The varied Landskip lay in View;
No Object could my Eyes persue,
    But Harrow on the Hill:

As much in vain my Wheel I seize
My Temper, not my Flax I teize,
No Subject now my Thoughts can please
    But Harrow on the Hill:

And while my Heart in earnest burns,
Your Stay the murmuring Spindle mourns,
Impatient till my Love returns
    From Harrow on the Hill.

1764.