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Sharp is the wind
Cold is the rain
Harsh is the livelong day
upon the wide open plain
By Donelly’s Hollow
Under sod gorse and furze
There lies the young wren-o
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
There are birds of the air
And beasts of the field
By spite and
by fury are people revealed
Attacked in the village
Spat on in towns
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 whiskey
She soon is run down
Her body paraded
on a staff through the town
A rag for her ceiling
The sod was her floor
She chose the cold
open plains o’er the dark
workhouse door
Two broken wings
With feathers so brown
They come from all over
to hunt the wren
on the wide open ground