There Is a River We All Must Cross

There is a river we all must cross,
Thousands will pass it tomorrow;
Some will go down to its waters with joy,
Others with anguish and sorrow.

Some will be welcom'd by angel bands,
Coming from over the river;
Others be borne by the current adown,
Where there is none to deliver.

These shall land safely in Eden's bow'rs,
Wearing the white robes of pardon;
Those shall be cast on a desolate shore,
Far from the gates of the garden.

These shall have voices to join the song
Ever from Eden ascending;
Those shall unite in the wailings of woe
Woe, that hath never an ending.

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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Come, Pretty School-Girl!

On this rolling planet ever have you seen
A home so like a palace waiting for its queen? --
A dwelling place so fair,
So fill'd with treasures rare,
As the little white cottage on Evergreen Square?

Come, pretty school girl! lay your books aside;
Yes graduate tomorrow -- tomorrow be my bride;
My fortune share,
And reign queen there,
In the little white cottage on Evergreen Square.

Red as are the roses climbing on its wall,
Your cheeks of richer crimson shall out-bloom them all.
Your eyes (beyond compare)
A brighter gleam shall wear,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.

Flow'rs of rarest fragrance all the year shall bloom,
And singing birds make music in your chosen room.

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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Lost on the Lady Elgin

Up from the poor man's cottage--
Forth from the mansion door;
Sweeping across the waters,
And echoing 'long the shore;
Caught by the morning breezes--
Borne on the evening gale;
Cometh a voice of mourning,
A sad and solemn wail.

Lost on the Lady Elgin!
Sleeping to wake no more!
Number'd in that three hundred,
Who fail'd to reach the shore!

Oh! 'tis the cry of children,
Weeping for parents gone;
Children who slept at evening,
But orphans woke at dawn.
Sisters for brothers weeping,
Husbands for missing wives--

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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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.
I was sleeping in the cabin,
Where liv'd Mary fair and young,
When a light shone in the window,
And a band of singers sung.

We are coming sister Mary,
We are coming bye and bye,
Be ready sister Mary,
For the time is drawing nigh.

I tried to tell my Mary,
But my tongue would not obey,
When the song so strange had ended,
And the singers flown away,
As I watch'd I heard a rustling,
Like the rustling of a wing,

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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Tis Finished

'Tis finished! 'tis ended!
The dread and awful task is done;
Tho' wounded and bleeding,
'tis ours to sing the vict'ry won,
Our nation is ransom'd--our enemies are overthrown
And now, now commoners, the brightest era ever known.

Then sing hallelujah! sing hallelujah!
Glory be to God on high!
For the old flag with the high white flag
is hanging in the azure sky.

Ye joy bells! ye peace-bells!
Oh never, never music rang,
So sweetly, so grandly, since angels in the advent sang,
Your message is gladness to myriads of waiting souls,
As onward and world-ward the happy, happy echo rolls.

Come patriots! come freedom!
Come join your every heart and voice;

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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Who Shall Rule This American Nation?

Who shall rule this American Nation?
Say, boys, say!
Who shall sit in the loftiest station?
Say, boys, say!
Shall the men who trampled on the banner?
They who now their country would betray?
They who murder the innocent freedmen?
Say, boys, say!

"No, never! no, never!"
The loyal millions say;
And 'tis they who rule this American Nation!
They, boys, they!

Who shall rank as the family royal?
Say, boys, say!
If not those who are honest and loyal?
Say, boys, say!
Then shall one elected as our servant,
In his pride, assume a regal sway?

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Picture on the Wall

'Tis noon of night; the sable clouds,
Hang weeping in the sky;
Alone I sit, where fancies flit
Like spectral shadows by.
Me thinks I see familiar forms,
And on before them all--
So fair, so calm, so wondrous like, wondrous like
The picture on the wall.

Among the brave and loyal,
How many lov'd ones fall!
Whose friends bereft,
Have only left, only left
A picture on the wall.

I hear the press of eager feet,
Upon my parlor floor;
A moment, and my willing arms
Enclasp my boy once more.
I feel his warm breath on my cheek,

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The First Love Dream

Last night, mother, he told me so,
As we walked by the pebbly stream;
And I wake so happy--so wild with joy,
It seems like a fairy dream.
But his charming voice is ringing in my ear,
As a dream voice chould not be--
He's the best man, you know, in the whole wide world,
And he loves--he only love me.

Kiss me, mother, and share the joy
That has on my fortune smiled;
You have shared myu sorrows when e'er I wept,
Since I was a little child
Do you chide me now? what could your darling do,
When he pleads with bended knee?
He's the best man, you know, in the whole wide world,
And he loves--he only loves me.

Leave you, mother, it brings a pang
To this light and bounding heart;

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Girls at Home

When the daylight fades on the tented field,
And the campfire cheerfully burns,
Then the Soldier's thought, like a carrier dove,
To his own love home returns;
Like a carrier dove -- a carrier dove,
And gleams beyond the foam,
So a light springs up in the Soldier's heart,
As he thinks of the Girls at Home.

When the shadows dance on the canvas walls,
And the camp with melody rings,
'Tis the good old song of the Stars and Stripes,
That the fireside circle sings;
Of the Stars and Stripes -- the Stars and Stripes --
For love of which they roam;
But the final song and the sweetest one,
Is the song of the Girls at Home.

Now the silver rays of a setting moon,
Thru' the lofty sycamores creep,

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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Ring the Bell, Watchman!

High is the belfry the old sexton stands,
Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands;
Fix'd is his gaze, as by some magic spell,
Till he hears the distant murmmer,
Ring, ring the bell.

"Ring the bell, watchman! ring! ring! ring!
Yes, yes! the good news is now on the wing;
Yes, yes! they come, and with tidings to tell --
Glorious and blessed tidings --
Ring, ring the bell!"

Baring his long silver locks to the breeze,
First for a moment he drops on his knees;
Then with a rigor that few could excel,
Answers the welcome bidding,
Ring, ring the bell.

Hear! from the hilltop, the first signal gun
Thunders the word that some great deed is done;

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poem by Henry Clay Work
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