To the tune: Aurelia
Our church is mighty spiky with smells and bells and chants,
And Palestrina masses that vex the Protestants.
O happy ones and holy who fall upon their knees
for solemn Benediction and mid-week Rosaries.
Though with a scornful wonder men see our clergy, dressed
in rich brocaded vestments as slowly they process;
Yet saints their watch are keeping lest souls be set alight
not by the Holy Ghost, but by incense taking flight.
Now we on earth have union with Lambeth, not with Rome,
although the wags and cynics may question our true home;
But folk masses and bingo can't possibly depose
the works of Byrd and Tallis, or Cranmer's stately prose.
(Here shall the organist modulate)
So let the organ thunder, sound fanfares "en chamade;"
Rejoice! For we are treading where many saints have trod;
Let peals ring from the spire, sing descants to high C,
just don't let your elation disrupt the liturgy.