Classic Poem

He said that he would come to-night,
Yet he bides late.
Ay, hearken, lass! The Otterburn's in spate,
Dear Kate.

And think you, Jean, a flooded burn
Would keep him late?
He'd need to cross it by the old sheep-gate,
Dear Kate.

And think you that would daunten him,
And keep him late?
The gate is old, and he's no featherweight,
Dear Kate.

Oh, think you something's happened, Jean,
To keep him late?
Likely the wire has snapped, and drowned your mate,
Dear Kate.

The wire has snapped? It cannot be ...
And yet, he's late!
The slinging-wire was half sawn through, dear Kate!
Dear Kate!

O heart of stone, you tell it me
Too late, too late!
Ay, on that stone I ground the saw of hate,