Vengeance in a Kilt

[ The idea to do a story in stanzaic form popped into my head. I wrote out a stanza. Let me know if you think I should keep going. ]

In Scotland where the thistle flowered
there is a laird of noble brow.
Six feet above the Earth he towered
But now he lies six feet below.
His body feeds the grass; his spirit
has stayed to talk to those who'll hear it.
His son, 19, wears black; becomes
the new marquess; inherits sums.
They meet atop the filial castle.
The son is pale; the father clear
in aspect and in word: "Come near,
my son, my lord, no longer vassal:
My blood was spilled. And so it starts.
And ends when you can use your heart."