The Wren

photo by Bob Nease

Yesterday was "Wren Day" among other things.  I am glad this English tradition has morphed away from hunting and killing a wren.   Here's the information:

Wren's Day is celebrated on St. Stephen's Day on December 26th. Traditionally it was celebrated throughout Ireland. Nowadays, the tradition can only be found in some towns.

Originally, boys and men (called wrenboys) would hunt for a wren to bring good luck for the New Year. They'd bring it around with them attached to a small bush they'd carry from house to house asking for money to bury their wren. (They no longer carry around real wrens. Sometimes they carry an effigy of a wren.) The wrenboys go around asking for money and singing wren songs. Some dress up in colorful straw outfits. In some towns they even have parades.

Here's one song that's sung on Wren's Day. Many variations exist.

The Wren Song

St. Stephen's Day Song

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,

St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze, (1)

Although he was little his honor was great,

Jump up me lads and give us a treat.

As I was going to Killenaule,

I met a wren upon the wall.

Up with me wattle (2) and knocked him down,

And brought him in to Carrick Town.

Droolin, Droolin, (3) where's your nest?

Tis in the bush that I love best

Tis in the bush, the holly tree,

Where all the boys do follow me.

Up with the kettle

And down with the pan,

And give us a penny

To bury the wren.

We followed the wren three miles or more,

Three miles or more, three miles or more.

We followed the wren three miles or more,

At six o'clock in the morning.

Mrs. Clancy's a very good woman,

A very good woman, a very good woman,

Mrs. Clancy's a very good woman,

She give us a penny to bury the wren.

Photo by Travis Truelove

Here's a wonderful poem by Mary Oliver:

The Wren From Carolina

by Mary Oliver

Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed

through the neighbor’s hedge

a line of grace notes I couldn’t even write down

much less sing.

Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat

and delivers such a cantering praise–

for what?

For the early morning, the taste of the spider,

for his small cup of life

that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill.

All things are inventions of holiness.

Some more rascally than others.

I’m on that list too,

though I don’t know exactly where.

But, every morning, there is my own cup of gladness,

and there’s that wren in the hedge, above me,

with his blazing song.

Photo by Marianne Roken