Pray tell me What's a Puseyite? 'Tis puzzling to describe
This theologic Janus of a pious hybrid tribe.
At Lambeth and the Vatican he's equally at home,
Although tis said he's wont to give the preference to Rome.
Voracious as a book-worm is this antiquarian man.
The Fathers is his text book, the Canons is his law.
He's mighty in the Rubrics and well up on the creeds,
But he only quotes the "Articles" just as they suit his needs
The Bible is to him almost a sealed book;
Reserve is on his lips and a mystery in his look.
He loves the earthly candlestick more than the heavenly light!
The Sacramental system is the lamp to illumine his night!
He's great in peurilities, when he bows and when he stands.
In the cutting of his surplice or the henining of his bands.
Each saint upon the calendar he knows by heart at least;
He always dates his letters on a vigil or a feast.
He talketh much of discipline, but when the shoe doth pinch,
This most obedient duteous son will not give way an inch:
Pliant and obstinate by turns what'er may be the whim,
He's only for the bishop when the bishop is for him.
But hark with what a nasal twang, between a whine and groan.
He doth our noble liturgy most murderously intone!
Cold and formal are his prayers, his preaching colder still.
Inanimate and passionless his very look doth chill!
So much more, and worse again, if I had time to write,
Will give you an idea of a thorough Puseyite;
Whom even Rome repudiates as she laughs within her sleeve
At the sacerdotal mimic, a solemn make believe!
Oh! it were well for England if her church were rid of those
Half Papist and half Protestant, who are less her friends than foes.
Give me an open enemy, and not a hollow friend!
With God and with our Bible we need not fear the end.