306 CERTHID^E. 



agrees almost word for word with a song which was cur- 

 rent twenty years ago, and is so perhaps now, among the 

 rustic population of Devonshire, though the actual hunt 

 has in the latter case fallen into disuse. 



In several parts of Ireland, especially the south, there 

 still exists a legend to the effect that a party of Irish 

 soldiers were on the point of surprising their enemies 

 (either Danes or Eoyalists, for the story varies) who lay 

 fatigued and asleep, when a Wren perched on the drum 

 and awoke the sentinels. An unhappy legend for the poor 

 bird. For some weeks previous to Christmas, peasants 

 assemble to revenge the treachery of the offender in the 

 persons of his descendants. Every Wren that is seen is 

 hunted to death, and the bodies, are carefully saved till 

 St. Stephen's Day, when they are suspended from a deco- 

 rated holly-bough and carried from house to house by 

 the captors, accompanied by a song of which, in Conne- 

 mara, this is the burden: 



" The Wran, the Wran, the king of all birds, 

 St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze ; 

 Although he is little, his family's great; 

 So come out, kind ladies, and give us a trate." 



The version of the song in Hall's " Ireland," as it is sung 

 in the neighbourhood of Cork, scarcely differs from the 

 above, and a similar one may be heard on the same day 

 within twenty miles of Dublin. That a custom so absurdly 

 singular should exist in places so remote, is in itself evi- 

 dence that it is of ancient origin, though whence derived 

 it would be idle to inquire. 



The true story of the Wren is simple enough. It is 

 a minute bird of unpretending plumage, distinguished 

 easily by its erect tail and its habit of hiding in bushes 

 and hedges, not clinging like the Creeper to the perpen- 

 dicular or horizontal bough of a tree, but hopping from 

 twig to twig, and occasionally taking a short direct flight 



