Henry Clay Work
Henry Clay Work was an American composer and songwriter.
He was born in Middletown, Connecticut, to Alanson and Amelia (Forbes) Work. His father opposed slavery, and Work was himself an active abolitionist and Union supporter. His family's home became a stop on the Underground Railroad, assisting runaway slaves to freedom in Canada, for which his father was once imprisoned.
Work was self taught in music. By the time he was 23, he worked as a printer in Chicago, specializing in setting musical type. He allegedly composed in his head as he worked, without a piano, using the noise of the machinery as an inspiration. His first published song was ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Henry Clay Work Poems
My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf, So it stood ninety years on the floor; It was taller by half than the old man himself, Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
Come Home, Father!
'Tis The SONG OF LITTLE MARY, Standing at the bar-room door While the shameful midnight revel
Grandmother Told Me So
The declaration has been spoken, For Grandmother told me so. The darkeys have got their fetlocks broken, For Grandmother told me so.
The Days When We Were Young
Sister! Sister! don't you remember The days when we were young? The long, long days, with a light and a shade Like the pearls of a necklace strung,
Brave Boys Are They!
Heavily falls the rain; Wild are the breezes tonight; But 'neath the roof, the hours as they fly, Are happy and calm and bright.
Farewell, My Loved One!
Round me now, beneath the weeping willow, Night's refreshing breezes blow; Anguish drove me from a sleepless pillow Hours and hours ago.
Babylon Is Fallen!
Don't you see de black clouds Risin' ober yonder, Whar de Massa's old plantation am? Neber you be frightened,
Grafted Into the Army
Our Jimmy has gone for to live in a tent, they have grafted him into the Army, he finally puckered up courage and went, when they grafted him into the Army.
Nicodemus, the slave was of African birth, And was bought for a bagful of gold; He was reckon'd as part of the salt of the earth, But he died years ago, very old.
Come Back to the Farm!
Brother, come back! come back! Dear brother, what can be the charm, That holds you so strong -- that keeps you so long Away from your father's able farm?
We Are Coming, Sister Mary
On a stormy night in winter, When the winds blew cold and wet, I heard some strains of music That I never can forget.
Mine heart ish proken into little pits, I tells you, friend, what for; Mine schweetheart, von coot patriotic kirl, She trives me off mit der war.
Washington and Lincoln
Come, happy people! Oh come let us tell The story of Washinton and Lincoln! History's pages can never excel The story of Washington and Lincoln.
King Bibler's Army
It was ten years ago when the belle of the village Gave here her hand to the young millionaire, Every toungue (even those of the bells in the steeple) Saying "Joy to the Heav'n-blest pair!"
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum swing to and ...