‘Play up, minstrels, play up,’ cried Pierce the Clerk, Rose the Hedger, and William the Hackneyman. ‘Tira-la-lee, tira-la-lee,’ went the musicians. ‘Join hands,’ cried Friar Gregory. ‘Join hands,’ echoed Brown Alice. ‘Join hands,’ echoed Kate Coil and Purnel of the Hollow-way. ‘In and out, in and out,’ cried Friar Gregory. ‘In and out, in and out,’ they all cried together. ‘Up and down, up and down,’ cried Friar Gregory. ‘Up and down, up and down,’ they all cried together. Then in and out, up and down they went over the green grass; nimble feet and ready hands keeping time to the music. ‘Tira-la-lee, tira-la-lee,’ light as wind and quick as thought; now to the middle, now to the rear, now under arm, now over head; lithe as kittens, swift as harts in springtime. ‘Tira-la-lee, tira-la-lee,’ dancing, laughing, singing, kissing; was there never such a Carol on the green before, was there never such jolly music played, was there never such a leader as the merry stranger. And the sun went down over the green hills, the stars came up and the noise of their merrymaking went up to the quiet heavens. ‘Drink, drink, more drink, tapster,’ cried the Friar. He felt the hot blood throb through his whole body; it seemed as though the veins and arteries must burst with the rebellious pulsation. This was Life, Reality at last. To follow out the brave imaginings of the spirit with the eager flesh and the nimble limbs, to forget the austere and crushing will that chains up the realisation of self, as Death the bodies of the departed, to give every thought its act and every whim its gratification,--this was Life indeed, and Pleasure, poignant, if you like, to madness and pain, but still the pure expression of the nature within him. ‘The Churchyard grass is shorter and smoother,’ cried Long Hugh. ‘To the Churchyard, to the Churchyard,’ cried the Friar. ‘Drink, my friends, drink.’ So they drank, and some brought lanterns and placed them on the stones in the Churchyard, and some hung lights among the boughs of the yew trees, for it was now quite dark except for the stars. ‘Tira-la-lee, tira-la-lee.’ They danced on the smooth turf of the Churchyard, up and down, in and out, by the carved stones and in the shadow of the tower; and the Friar danced with Clarice of Cock’s Lane. Now he held her in his arms, now she slipped away; now he grasped her hands, now she clasped his neck, now he knelt to her, now she knelt to him. ‘Tira-la-lee.’ Round and round they went, now they embraced, now they parted. In the night, Clarice was very fair to look upon. Her eyes were like dewy stars, hair like the raven’s wing, lips of liquid laughter, her face an Eastertide lily. Her bare arms and neck glanced snowily in the darkness. ‘Tira-la-lee’; now he implored, now she refused, now she consented, now he pursued, now she fled. ‘Tira-la-lee, tira-la-lee’; over the gravestones, round the yew trees, over the half-made graves, round the church buttresses.