Hunting the Wren (Live in Dublin)

Sharp is the wind

Cold is the rain

Harsh is the livelong day

Upon the wide open plain

By Donnelly’s hollow

Under sad gorse and furze

There lies a young wren oh

By the saints she was cursed

The wren is a small bird

How pretty she sings

She bested the eagle

When she hid in its wings

With sticks and with stones

All among the small mounds

They come from all over

To hunt the wren on the wide open ground

They flock round the soldiers

In their jackets so red

For barrack room favours

Pennies and bread

The soldier is rough

In anger or fun

And he causes much bloodshed

With his big musket gun

The birds of the earth

The beasts of the field

By spite and by fury

Are people revealed

Attacked in the village

Spat on in town

They come from all over

To hunt the wren on the wide open ground

The wren is a small bird

Though blamed for much woe

Her form is derided

Wherever she goes

With cold want and whisky

She soon is run down

Her body paraded

On a staff through the town

Her head for her ceiling

The sod was her floor

She chose the cold open plain [missing]

The dark work has [missing]

With two broken wings

And feathers so brown

They come from all over

To hunt the wren on the wide open ground