Henry Clay Work

(1 October 1832 – 8 June 1884 / Middletown, Connecticut)

Henry Clay Work Poems

41. The Picture On The Wall 1/3/2003
42. Sequel To Grandfather's Clock 1/3/2003
43. Joy In Heaven 1/3/2003
44. Lost On The Lady Elgin 1/3/2003
45. Andy Veto 1/3/2003
46. Touch The Sleeping Strings Again 1/3/2003
47. Lilly-Willy-Woken 1/3/2003
48. Georgie Sails To-Morrow! 1/3/2003
49. Dad's A Millionaire 1/3/2003
50. Don'T Be Cruel To The Motherless Darlings 1/3/2003
51. King Bibler's Army 1/3/2003
52. Little Major 1/3/2003
53. Come To Me, Sunbeam! I'M Dying 1/3/2003
54. Now Moses 1/3/2003
55. Washington And Lincoln 1/3/2003
56. Crossing The Grand Sierras 1/3/2003
57. Kingdom Coming 1/3/2003
58. Crying For Bread 1/3/2003
59. Corporal Schnapps 1/3/2003
60. Come Back To The Farm! 1/3/2003
61. We Are Coming, Sister Mary 1/3/2003
62. Sleeping For The Flag 1/3/2003
63. Babylon Is Fallen! 1/3/2003
64. Grafted Into The Army 1/3/2003
65. Farewell, My Loved One! 1/3/2003
66. Brave Boys Are They! 1/3/2003
67. The Days When We Were Young 1/3/2003
68. Grandmother Told Me So 1/3/2003
69. Come, Pretty School-Girl! 1/3/2003
70. Wake Nicodemus! 1/3/2003
71. Grand-Father's Clock 1/3/2003
72. Come Home, Father! 1/3/2003

Comments about Henry Clay Work

  • Mo. (9/26/2007 8:28:00 AM)

    ''He's a skillful song writer, and poet! ''
    (10!)

    0 person liked.
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Best Poem of Henry Clay Work

Come Home, Father!

'Tis The
SONG OF LITTLE MARY,
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right home from the shop,
As soon as your day's work was done.
Our fire has gone out our house is all dark
And mother's been watching since tea, --
With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me. --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the ...

Read the full of Come Home, Father!

Shadows On The Floor

Saturday night! Saturday night!
The hope that lingered has taken to flight;
From morning till evening, the weary week through,
In vain has he battled for something to do.
Poor man! emptyhanded, how can he return
To those whose fate hangs on the pence he may earn?
How can he reply to his questioner sweet --
"Did Papa bring Papa's girl somethin' to eat?"

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