Robert Kirkland Kernighan

(25 April 1854 – 3 November 1926 / Ontario)

Robert Kirkland Kernighan Poems

1. The Khan's Canticles 5/9/2012
2. Supper's Ready! 5/9/2012
3. Saul 5/9/2012
4. 34 The Khan's Canticles 5/9/2012
5. Scuse Me! 5/9/2012
6. The 5/9/2012
7. The Old Hymn 5/9/2012
8. So-Ho, Bossy, So-Ho! 5/9/2012
9. He Knew Jim 5/9/2012
10. The Girl Who Giggles In The Choir 5/9/2012
11. This Is Spring 5/9/2012
12. Our Land 5/12/2012
13. My Summer Fallow 5/12/2012
14. When The Old Cow Calves 5/12/2012
15. Here He Is Again 5/12/2012
16. Pepy Is Not Dead 5/12/2012
17. The Song Of The Thaw 5/12/2012
18. I8 The Kuan's Canticles 5/12/2012
19. He Ate Their Ma 5/12/2012
20. To-Night He Is Welcoming Baby 5/12/2012
21. 20 The Khan's Canticles 5/12/2012
22. I'Ll Steal For Her 5/12/2012
23. He Keepeth Them 5/12/2012
24. Kiss Her Everyday 5/12/2012
25. The Khan's Canticles 23 5/12/2012
26. The Sunny Side 5/12/2012
27. The Khan's Canticles. 25 5/12/2012
28. Let Daddy In 5/12/2012
29. Her Father's Dinner Pail 5/12/2012
30. The Waubigoon 5/9/2012
31. The Pond Of Long Ago 5/9/2012
32. The Man Who Hasn'T Got A Job 5/12/2012
33. There's A Bullfrog In The Well. 5/12/2012
34. The Genesis Of A Soul 5/12/2012
35. Not The Joe I Thought He Was 5/12/2012
36. The Tramp's Soliloquy 5/12/2012
37. Morning On The Farm 5/12/2012
38. My Brother Tom 5/12/2012
39. Little Kid Cute One 5/12/2012
40. Too Many Squirts 5/12/2012
Best Poem of Robert Kirkland Kernighan

Chickens Come Home To Roost

The world is wide and the faithful tide

Returns to the welcome sands ;
It 's often true that the work we do

Conies back to its maker's hands.
And every man knows the wondrous plan

By creation introduced :
Be it soon or late, at a certain date,

The chickens come home to roost.

JBe careful, then, ye sons of men,

What reckless words ye say ;
Be they good or ill, your sayings will

On your threshold stand some day.
You 'll bear the blame, for all the shame

Was by your lips produced ;
You 'll know it then, and ...

Read the full of Chickens Come Home To Roost

Scuse Me!

I HEAR I 've got to preach tomorrer,

Our pastor he be orful ill ;
An Deacon Smith, I larn with sorrer,

His lung it be a bleedin still.
I Ve prayed at funerals an sich,
An at camp meetings tuk a hitch,

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