The wren, the wren, the king of all birds

When I think of St Stephen’s Day, I think of the Wrenboys. I think of that dark, often wet day just after Christmas when all the glamour of the festive season has just passed and you know that, for another year, that’s as good as it’s going to get.

We are lucky in our Ox Mountain region that there is still a trace of this tradition left, and while it may have changed in form over time, it still has a place. There may even be room for recovery.

Beginnings 

Wren Day (Irish: Lá an Dreoilín) is an Irish and Manx custom associated with St Stephen's Day. Traditionally, men and boys hunted a wren and placed it on top of a staff decorated with holly, ivy and ribbons, or displayed it in a decorated box on top of a pole. This was paraded around the neighbourhood by a group of Wrenboys. These boys were traditionally dressed in straw masks, greenery and colourful clothing. They sang songs and played music in exchange for donations.

On the Isle of Man, the people held a funeral for the wren afterwards, and danced around the wren pole. Thankfully, the wren is no longer hunted and a stuffed wren is used instead – indeed I have seen neither option deployed here in County Sligo. There were similar New Year traditions in parts of Britain and France until the nineteenth century. It is speculated that the tradition derives from early Celtic times.

The unfortunate wren 

Sligo Heritage informs us that the tradition is very much on the wane these days, but in some few localities, Wrenboys still go out on St Stephen's Day. The same heritage group also gives an interesting insight as to how the poor little wren got mixed up in all of this.

Why, of all birds, is the inoffensive little wren chosen as the martyr for display by groups who take their name from it? Because of its treachery, some claim! When the Irish forces were about to catch Cromwell’s troops by surprise, a wren, perched on one of the soldier’s drums, made a noise that woke the sleeping sentries just in time, thereby saving the camp.

This seems like a very recent explanation for a tradition that obviously has much older and deeper roots. The Sligo heritage group continues with an explanation that takes us right back, through the Middle Ages and into pre-Christian times.

Another explanation is that the wren betrayed St Stephen, the first Christian martyr, by flapping its wings to attract his pursuers when he was hiding. More say the hostility towards this most harmless of creatures results from the efforts of clerics in the Middle Ages to undermine vestiges of druidic reverence and practices regarding the bird. Medieval texts interpret the etymology of wren, the Irish for which is dreolín, as derived from 'dreán' or 'draoi éan' the translation of which is 'druid bird'.

Clíodhna the Seductress 

One of the most interesting legends from ancient times is about Cliodhna, a woman of the otherworld. It seems she seduced young men into following her to the seashore where they drowned. Eventually, a charm was found that protected men from her seductive ways, and could also bring about her destruction. Her only means of protection was to turn herself into a wren. 

As a punishment for her crimes, she was forced to take the shape of the little bird each Christmas Day. According to the legend, she was fated to die by human hand. This is what gave rise to the seemingly barbarous practice of hunting the wren.

The Boys of Barr na Sráide 

Jack B Yeats captured the Wrenboys in a drawing but Sigorson Clifford in his magical poem, The Boys of Barr na Sráide, captures best of all the essence of the Wrenboys and St Stephen’s Day. The boys in his poem did indeed hunt the ‘gay dreolín’ but the poem is more about comradeship, the landscape and one’s native place rather than killing the wren. Ciarán Boyle sang the song on his 2012 album Bright Flame. In his notes, he explained his interest in the original poem that later became a song.

Again, my father sang this song – a favourite of mine. It is from the writing of a Kerry poet, Sigerson Clifford, now long deceased. I don’t know who wrote the tune or when for that matter. I like the obvious pride and sense of belonging which he writes about in this song. Packie McGinley of Ardara, Co Donegal, sent me a recording of the song sung by Francis Byrne which I really enjoyed and which, in turn helped to form my own version.

Oh the town it climbs the mountain and looks out upon the sea, 

And sleeping time or waking, ‘tis there I long to be, 

To walk again that kindly street, the place where life began 

With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

From memory 

When I was young, I went out on 'the wran' – as well called it. I was in national school at the time and used to go with a friend. I have few enough memories of the days apart from being nervous about singing. I didn’t dare bring a tin whistle as I would surely have been found out. My school mate however was quite musical and full of confidence and that seemed to get us through.

We mostly got money at the doors. Getting a few sweets was a bonus and would only happen at the more up-to-date houses – those with a new bungalow and maybe a child or two in the house. We cycled a route of about eight miles. We didn’t go to every house along the way, just the best bets. We knew our locality and those who lived it in and usually our hunches were well rewarded. We really hit the jackpot if there was some extra family home on holidays or visiting for the day. We might gather more money in that house than we gathered in the previous two miles of the road.

We trotted out Mursheen Durcan, Whiskey in the Jar and Jingle Bells until we were solid sick of them, but the songs remained fresh at each door. Despite our disguises, we often got questioned on how far we had come and where were we from. At that stage, we had completed our performance and got our reward so letting our masks down no longer seemed such a big deal.

I have no idea how many hours we invested in our tour of the neighbourhood but we finished at about four o’clock, just before dark, in time for a visit to the local shop. There, we bought the sweets and penny bars and drinks that our ordinary weekly budget would not allow. The usual quarter pound of boiled sweets was replaced by a half-pound bag. In 1973, a quarter pound of Bulls Eyes was four new pence.

There is still a decent share of the Wrenboys tradition around where I live. I’m glad about that, if only because each year it brings back my own memories of doing the same thing. The decades have brought changes; now there is less money and more sweets given out and the disguises are shop-bought. I can, however, see one major improvement; the entertainment is much better these days. While scarce, the Wrenboys that turn up now have fiddles and banjos and voices that sing in key. Mind you, fancy and all as they have become, none of them can sing Mursheen Durcan.