Sir James Stanfield

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ the hall together, And question this most bloody piece of work, To know it further.—SHAKSPEARE. The lady shriek’d, and aye she sobb’d, As she wou’d burst in twain; “O peace,” quoth she, “I’ll ne’er know more, “Since my loved knight is slain!

“O pale, pale are those cheeks that flush’d “With manhood’s ruddy hue; “And glazed those sparkling eyes in death, “That spake a soul so true!”

“Go saddle ye the swiftest steed “That’s snorting in the sta’, “And ride, go ride, my trusty serf, “As fast as ye can ca’.

“Ride by Edina’s lofty towers, “My Philip bring to me; “For much I dread a natural death “His father didna dee.”

They search’d the city through and through From night till dawn of day; But the wicked youth they could not find Till his sire was in the clay.

O then he made a loud lament! And swore himself he’d kill; But ere a night and day elapsed He did not look so ill.

And soon Newmills’s mansion fair With merriment did shake, As if the burial bread had been Bewitch’d to bridal cake.

And lightly grew the lady’s heart, And, O! she busked proud; And in her sable weeds appear’d Like beauty in a cloud.

Alas! that aged men should e’er The youthful virgin wed; Alas! that youthful wife should e’er Forsake the marriage bed.

’Twas whisper’d, and perchance ’twas true, The lady oft was seen A dallying with her lemane vile Among the breckans green.

’Tis merry in the greenwood now, The beagles blithe are running, And children ramble in the woods Their golden tresses sunning.

In search of nature’s feathery quire Two youths had heedless run, When they o’erheard a villain say “The hard-won turn is done!”

“He’d borne the brunt of flood and field; “Had stood knee-deep in gore! “But never saw a soul so stout “As that the young Knight bore.

“While in the agonies of death “The old man’s heart did bleed, “With taunts, reproach, and fiend-like scorn “He urged the hellish deed.”

O why comes the king’s messenger With warrant in his hand? And why do these grim officers Bid Philip Stanfield stand?

By yonder stream they’ve ta’en a turn Beneath the willow’s shade, Where, shelter’d by the rush-grown bank, The suicide was laid.

O why do the physicians come, Muffled in cloak and cowl? Their business is to save the living, Sure death they cannot fool.

Why comes the sexton with his spade? Another foolish man! Who daily haps mortality, Yet’s mortal o’er his cann.

The spade upturn’d the wormy earth, And grazed the coffin’s coom, When forth they dragg’d the lifeless knight, Like prisoner to his doom.

Then to Newmills they solemn wend, Each mourner grim and tall; And dread amazement paints each face That crowds into the hall.

Now, “Stanfield, lift thy father’s head,” The doctors straight did say, “That we may view his mangled form, “For here has been foul play!”

Young Stanfield touch’d his father’s corpse, When ’rose a fearful wail; For blood gush’d from the winding-sheet, And every face grew pale.

And aye the dead clothes redder grew— The youth fell on the floor; Thus suddenly remorse will smite, And guilty heart o’erpower.

“Thou art the murderer! alas!” The pale chirurgeon said; “Beadles, your stoutest bonds prepare, “And bind the parricide.”

Then swore the youth by God and heaven, O’ercome with seeming wo, “My heart and hand are pure from blood, “As Lapland’s spotless snow.”

“’Tis false!”—they bound him where he stood, Nor listed to his tale; They march’d him hand and limb in chains To fair Edina’s jail.

Soon sentenced by his country’s laws, He met a shameful death; But harden’d guilt the crime denied With his expiring breath.

Yet retribution came, though late, Even to the gallows tree; The cord unclasping, down he slipt Upon his bended knee.

The hangman finish’d, with a grin, What seem’d so ill begun, And strangled, in the pangs of death, As sire, so died the son.

The headsman plied his horrid art, When with unerring stroke The youth’s devoted head, laid low, Roll’d bloody from the block.

Then high in air his clotted locks To rabble’s gaze was spread, As loud the executor cried, “Behold the parricide!”

On Haddington’s eastern portal high His hand and head were placed; For near that fatal field did lie, This horrid crime disgraced.