Death of Emily Brontë (1848)

The Beaker Folk may gather on a Blasted Heath (Aspley Heath will do)

Archdruid: Heathcliff, it's me, Cathy, I've come home.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: Ooh it gets dark. It gets lonely.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: On the other side from you.

All: I'm so co-o-o-old.

Archdruid: Too long I roam in the night.

All: Too bloody right. It's dark. It's freezing cold. The only suffering from consumption you understand is too many mince pies. And you clearly don't know any of Emily Bronte's work, except via the medium of Kate Bush. We're off.

Archdruid: But the Brontes were so significant! By the time Hardy was barely in short trousers, they'd invented the whole concept of senselessly killing off all the interesting characters in rural surroundings!

All: OK, Eileen. Skip to the authentic ending.

Archdruid: [I] wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers.

All: In that quiet earth.

The Beaker Folk quit the blasted heath. A lone figure, romantically-dressed, floats across the heath pining for her lost love, and speaking in an inauthentic Yorkshire accent.