Anglo-Catholic Congresses

We, who remember the Faith, the grey-headed ones,

    Of those Anglo-Catholic Congresses swinging along,

Who heard the South Coast salvo of incense-guns

    And surged to the Albert Hall in our thousands strong

    With ‘extreme’ colonial bishops leading in song;

We, who remember, look back to the blossoming May-time

    On ghosts of servers and thurifers after Mass,

The slapping of backs, the flapping of cassocks, the play-time,

    A game of Grandmother’s Steps on the vicarage grass—

    “Father, a little more sherry. I’ll fill your glass.”

We recall the triumph, that Sunday after Ascension,

    When our Protestant suffragan suffered himself to be coped—

The SYA and the Scheme for Church Extension—

    The new diocesan’s not as ‘sound’ as we’d hoped,

    And Kensit threatens and has Sam Gurney poped?

Yet, under the Travers baroque, in a limewashed whiteness,

    The fiddle-back vestments a-glitter with morning rays,

Our Lady’s image, in multiple-candled brightness,

    The bells and banners—those were the waking days

    When Faith was taught and fanned to a golden blaze.