For some weeks preceding Christmas, crowds of village boys may be seen peering into the hedges, in search of the "tiny wren" and when one is discovered, the whole assemble and give eager chase to, until they have slain, the little bird. In the hunt, the utmost excitement prevails; shouting, screeching, and rushing; all sorts of missiles are flung at the puny mark; and, not unfrequently, they light upon the head of some less innocent being. From bush to bush, from hedge to hedge, is the wren pursued until bagged with as much pride and pleasure, as the cock of the woods by the more ambitious sportsman. The stranger is utterly at a loss to conceive the cause of this " hubbub," or the motive for so much energy in pursuit of "such small gear."

On the anniversary of St. Stephen (the 26th of December) the enigma is explained. Attached to a huge holly-bush, elevated on a pole, the bodies of several little wrens are borne about. This bush is an object of admiration in proportion to the number of dependent birds, and is carried through the streets in procession, by a troop of boys, among whom may be usually found " children of a larger growth," shouting and roaring as they proceed along, and every now and then stopping before some popular house—such as that of Mr. Olden the " distinguished inventor " of Evkerooknion(a liquid soap) and half-a-dozen other delightful and useful things to which he has given similar classical names—and there singing " the wren boys" song, to the air which a professional friend, Mr. Alexander D. Roche, has " penned " down for us.

To the words we have listened a score of times, and although we have found them often varied according to the wit or poetical capabilities of a leader of the party, and have frequently heard them drawled out to an apparently interminable length, the following specimen will probably satisfy our readers as to the merit of the composition:—

The wran, the wran, the king of all birds,

St. Stephen's day was cot in the furze,

Although he is little his family's grate,

Put yer haud in yer pocket and give us a trate.

Sing holly, sing ivy—sing ivy, sing holly,

A drop just to drink it would drown melancholy.

And if you dhraw it ov the best,

I hope in heaven yer sowl will rest,

But if you dhraw it ov the small

It won't agree wid de wran boys at all.

Of course contributions are levied in many quarters, and the evening is, or rather was, occupied in drinking out the sum total of the day's collection. The accompanying sketch, from the pencil of Mr. Maclise, will describe better than language can do the singular ceremony, and the fantastic group by whom it is conducted. This is, we believe, the only Christmas gambol remaining in Ireland of the many, that in the middle ages were so numerous and so dangerous as to call for the interposition of the law, and the strong arm of magisterial authority. As to the origin of the whimsical but absurd and cruel custom, we have no data. A legend, however, is still current among the peasantry which may serve in some degree to elucidate it.

In a grand assembly of all the birds of the air, it was determined that the sovereignty of the feathered tribe should be conferred upon the one who would fly highest. The favourite in the betting-book was, of course, the eagle, who at once, and in full confidence of victory, commenced his flight towards the sun; when he had vastly distanced all competitors, he proclaimed with a mighty voice his monarchy over all things that had wings. Suddenly, however, the wren, who had secreted himself under the feathers of the eagle's crest, popped from his hiding-place, flew a few inches upwards, and chirped out as loudly as he could, " Birds, look up and behold your king."

There is also a tradition that in " ould ancient times," when the native Irish were about to catch their Danish enemies asleep, a wren perched upon the drum and woke the slumbering sentinels just in time to save the whole army; in consequence of which, the little bird was proclaimed a traitor, outlawed, and his life declared forfeit wherever he was thenceforward encountered.

Text and Image FROM: Ireland: Its Scerey & Character by Mr & Mrs C. Hall