Hunting the Wren in Wales and Ireland

Judith Arnopp

Walter Crane - Hunting the Wren

The tradition of Hunting the Wren was once widespread but most sources are from Wales, Ireland, Scotland, and also France. Elizabeth Atwood Lawrence in her book Hunting The Wren: transformation from bird to symbol, even found one source which suggests the ritual could have traces in Neolithic times. The ritual grew and evolved and there are now many variations on the theme but all share the same root.

A wren was captured (sometimes killed) and kept within a box, sometimes a specially fashioned ‘wren house.’ Ms Atwood Lawrence says, ‘Some wren houses had a square of glass at either end for viewing the tiny corpse.’ Young men, dressed in straw costumes and blowing tin whistles and other loud instruments, went from house to house. As with the wassail tradition they were invited in and plied with food and drink.

The Stoning of St Stephen

Originally Hunting the Wren took place on December 26th or St. Stephen’s day. St. Stephen was the first Christian martyr, and one story says that when Stephen attempted to hide in a bush he startled a wren who betrayed Stephen’s presence to his enemies with its distinctive loud chattering alarm call. The wren, like Stephen, was subsequently hunted and stoned to death. An Irish version of The Wren Hunt Song goes like this:

The Wren, The Wren

The Wren, the Wren the king of all birds,

St. Stephenses day, he was caught in the furze.

Although he is little, his honor is great,

Rise up, kind sir, and give us a trate.

We followed this Wren ten miles or more

Through hedges and ditches and heaps of snow,

We up with our wattles and gave him a fall

And brought him here to show you all.

For we are the boys that came your way

To bury the Wren on Saint Stephenses Day,

So up with the kettle and down with the pan!

Give us some help for to bury the Wren!

You can listen here: Song Hunting the Wren https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnKE-cVCrt8

The Mabinogion, a collection of Welsh myths that was recorded in the 12th century, tells the story of how Lleu Llaw Gyffes tricks Arianrhod into giving him his name. The story involves Lleu throwing a needle between the tendon and the bone of a wren’s leg (an impossible feat). The wren (thought to have its root in the welsh word ‘ren’ which means ‘king’ or ‘queen’ and the word Dryw means both ‘druid’ and ‘wren’. The full story of Llew Llaw Gyffes would take too much time to tell here but here is a link to one version of the tale. http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/history/sites/themes/society/myths_mabinogion_04.shtml

Instances are recorded in Wales of the ritual of Hunting the Wren being used as a blessing. One man who went out annually on the hunt was invited in to the home of an old farmer and his wife and asked to bless them in their bed, providing them with fortune for the coming year.

In North Pembrokeshire farming activities were suspended for three weeks, the plough brought into the house and placed under the dining table where the men of the neighbourhood dampened the plough with beer before drinking themselves. This was known as ‘wetting the plough’ and in most cases they also carried a wren and sang the Wren Hunt song.

After Hunting the Wren the young men of Pembrokeshire carried a decorated wren box on a bier calling from house to house while singing wren hunt songs and drinking at every stop. If they were refused hospitality some songs included the line ‘Come raging wind, in fury frown and turn this house all upside down.’ So, perhaps it was wiser to let them in.

But these rituals existed in a slightly different form in different Celtic communities. One excellent source for these old Celtic myths can be found in ‘Are you Going Home Now? Memories of Old Kilkea in which the author, Mícheál Ó Dubhshláine, recalls a visit from the wren boys when he was a small boy.

‘I remember as a child being very afraid of them, dressed up in rags, an old frock or shirt, with fiddle faces or ‘hi-fiddles’ (aghaidh fidl) as they were called…. I don’t ever remember seeing the wren itself. I do remember my mother asking them where the wren was, and I understood that in earlier days they used actually have a wren in a bush going round with them. The custom goes back hundreds of years, so much so nobody knows what it means or where it began. Mary Leadbetter who lived back in eighteenth century in Ballimore and kept a diary writes about the wren boys back in 1780’s. There was a belief that the wren was someway involved in betraying Jesus to the Jews, and so deserved all he got.’

You can read more here: https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=zGhLCgAAQBAJ&pg=PA169&lpg=PA169&dq=%27going+on+a+wran%27&source=bl&ots=J2IKkYw1Uk&sig=GqtkfYPJRIDfOeU0dzb748bTKtI&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CEQQ6AEwCGoVChMImq3l6rqPyAIVTNsaCh1AKwI4#v=onepage&q=%27going%20on%20a%20wran%27&f=false

To modern ears this all sounds like an excuse for youthful carousal, and that may well be an accurate appraisal but why the wren? What made him the victim of all this? He is too small to make worthwhile eating, and is no threat to our crops or livestock.

The wren is acclaimed as King of the Birds in European folklore. The fable, mentioned by Aristotle and Pliny, tells of a contest to see who, judged on their ability to fly the highest, should be king of birds. The eagle flew higher and faster but a wren had concealed himself in the eagle’s feathers and suddenly popped out flying even higher and winning the crown. The story says that the eagle was so angry he threw the wren to the ground damaging his tail, which is why the wren’s tale is so short. As a consequence of this fable the wren is known as king of the birds in many places around the world. In some tales, because of his ability to creep into small spaces, perhaps entering into tombs or crumbling graves, he is even suspected of passing between this world and the next. 

There were many associated customs; the Wren Procession, Wren King Songs, Burying the Wren and, in some traditions, wren feathers are offered as protection and good luck. Most myths and customs connected to the wren involve trickery, and often an undermining of authority. A.L Lloyd in his book English Peasant’s Revolt of 1381 believes The Wren Song was sung during the villains revolt of 1381 in England. Later, in Ireland, farmers fighting against their English landlords described their revolutionary activities as ‘Going on a Wran.’

The mythological wren was also associated with trickery, so perhaps he was seen as a wily, untrustworthy ruler and the real root of wren hunting lies in subversion. The Celts have never held much love for English kings.

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Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors, Volume 2
Edited by Debra Brown and Sue Millard

An anthology of essays from the second year of the English Historical Fiction Authors blog, this book transports the reader across the centuries from prehistoric to twentieth century Britain. Nearly fifty different authors share the stories, incidents, and insights discovered while doing research for their own historical novels.

From medieval law and literature to Tudor queens and courtiers, from Stuart royals and rebels to Regency soldiers and social calls, experience the panorama of Britain’s yesteryear. Explore the history behind the fiction, and discover the true tales surrounding Britain’s castles, customs, and kings.

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Judith Arnopp writes historical fiction set in Tudor and Medieval England and Wales. She also blogs and writes articles for various magazines. You can find more information about Judith’s work on her official webpage: www.juditharnopp.com

Further reading

Elizabeth Atwood Lawrence, Hunting the Wren: transformation from bird to symbol

A.L. Lloyd, English Peasant’s Revolt of 1381,

Mícheál Ó Dubhshláine, Are You Going Home Now: Memories of Old Kilekea

Hunting the Wren by Llew Tegid, pp. 99-113, Cylchgrawn Cymdeithas Alawon Gwerin Cymrv [or] Journal of the Welsh Folk Song Society, published by the Welsh Folk Song Society, Bangor, Vol. 1, part 3, 1911. The early issues for years 1909-1912 of the Journal of the Welsh Folk Song Society are on the hathitrust site. Llew Tegid is a pseudonym for Lewis Davies Jones.

The Gardener’s House

Judith Arnopp

When I was a lad I had a nursemaid, Cora. She was a grim faced Scott with slapping hands and a virulent tongue but when I was hurt or sick she lifted me onto her lap to cradle me against her bosom. Throughout my infancy she became a haven from childhood terror, her personal scent of starch and syrup of figs synonymous with love. Years later, near Brussels in 1815, I sheltered beneath a dripping hedge and, while the other men dreamed of a soft bivouac in the arms of a warm and willing whore, I thought of Cora and the safety of my nursery.

It had been a hell of a night, starving hungry, with no hope of food, we retreated through sodden fields, impeded by rain and French snipers. Stray cannon balls fell sporadically, demolishing the earth, blowing up my friends, scattering us. We marched on, some of us losing our boots in the muck but with bloody feet we ploughed on until it was too dark to see.

Although the skies suggested otherwise it was mid-June. The rain trickled down my neck and seeped into my boots making me as miserable as hell.  I was captain of the 52^nd Oxfordshires and that night we could neither keep dry nor warm ourselves. The fire produced only sulky flames and an awful lot of smoke while our feet, sunk in glutinous mud, ached with cold.  One of the chaps had an umbrella, a woman’s one with a frilled edge and we’d all jibed him about it earlier in the day but now there was not one among us would not have sold his mother to be as dry as he. 

The faces of my fellows were lit only by the glow of their cigars. We squatted on sheaths of straw to keep out the worst of the mud and, although I longed to straighten my stiff legs, I was reluctant to move for I knew that the few inches of ground beneath my arse was the driest spot left in the whole God-forsaken world.

Further along the hedge someone began to sing a song about a sailor and a mermaid.

‘Sing something drier, mate,’ some wit yelled from the ranks and, after a few moments he began again, this time the disturbing words of The Minstrel Boy.  We sat quietly listening.

 The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

In the silence that followed a staccato of coughs attacked my neighbour, Jack Mullins. ‘Not long til mornin’ now, sir,’ he said. ‘Me blood is froze. I hope we see the sun today.’

I looked toward the pinkening skyline and saw that Jack was right; dawn was approaching.

The next day the sun shone down so hot that the mud dried into a crust on our faces and in our hair.  It was hard to believe we had ever been cold or wet in our lives and some of us even began to complain about the heat. We spread our tunics on the hedge and gulped down a hurried breakfast before firing our muskets and rifles to ensure they were dry and clear of mud. Soon after that the French guns began, devastating the lovely morning. 

The bright skies darkened with smoke and all natural sounds were obliterated, no birdsong, no rustling breezes, just din and death and disaster. I had fought alongside Wellington all across the peninsular but I’d never heard such noise, or seen such sights as I saw that day. It was as if hell had vomited all of its horrors onto the once green slopes of Hougoumont. 

As the Frenchies marched toward us we formed the familiar tight square, muskets screaming, bullets flying, our targets obscured by drifting, acrid smoke.  I didn’t aim my weapon but just closed my eyes, firing round after round, trying not to notice my comrades falling about me. Quickly, we tightened the square, closing the gap, reforming over the dead and dying. We just kept shooting, no time for thinking, no time for fear. Aoon the French we had killed began to pile up, forming a protective barrier through which the living could not pass.

But still the big guns continued, igniting the house and barns that we were supposed to be defending.  Cannonballs landed among us in a nightmare of blood and screaming as we reformed our ever-diminishing square until, inevitably, throughout the afternoon we were driven further and further back toward the farmhouse. 

From within the barn we heard screams of terror. Mullins, his face white beneath the blood and the grime, wiped his streaming eyes. ‘That’s our wounded, that is, sir, they’re burning alive, God help ‘em.’ He coughed, trying to disguise his sobs.

‘And God help us, Mullins.’

I turned back to the field, shouldered my rifle and killed another Frenchie.

We were driven against the burning walls and had to retreat back from the west gate. I stood up and screamed at my men to take cover in the gardener’s house. We were fighting hand to hand, swords clashed, bayonets sank into yielding flesh, musket butts crashed into skulls and, all the time, cannon balls hailed down. Bent double, we leapt over dead men, slipping in the trailing guts of blasted horses, clambering over broken cannon wheels and abandoned carts.  

I led them past the burning windows of the big farmhouse, the blazing carcass of the stables scorching us, sizzling the hair on our heads and then we burst through the door of a small house.  I slumped against a wall, the breath ripping in my throat and my men crashed in after me, taking immediate positions at the windows. I took out my flask, the welcome burn of gin restoring my mind, kindling my courage. My chest heaved. I wiped a sleeve across my brow.  There were just twelve of us left and a good few already wounded.

A sound from below the stairs. The men froze as I shouldered my gun and got up, stalking across the room to kick open the door. A civilian, late forties and a small girl cowered among buckets and brushes. The girl’s eyes were huge, her pupils dilated, her father held her tight against him, mouthing a prayer. He babbled something in French; he was the gardener, they’d left it too late to get away.

‘Stay there,’ I said and kicked the door closed again.

They were everywhere, filthy blue clad Frenchman running in the yard, bayoneting those of us that had fallen beneath their artillery. I ran my tongue about my mouth, summoning saliva, lifted my gun and took my position near the door. With shaking hands, I waited. The din outside increased as the big guns improved their range, cannon balls landing, shaking the house, blowing out the windows. We maintained a steady volley of fire but, step by step, moment by moment, they grew nearer until I could see their filthy faces, their shredded uniforms and blood-matted hair.

A great scream and a figure burst through the door, leaping into the air, legs flying. Time slowed to reveal the cold hatred of my enemy suspended above me. I saw fear; I saw blood; I saw my killer. A woman in a nankeen jacket and baggy trousers, her long tangled hair running like blood over her shoulders, a torn tunic, a glimpse of breast, a gaping mouth, stretched cheeks, her bayonet as remorseless as her pity.

I curled before her, put up my hands to shield my head. ‘Cora!’ I whispered, the name a hopeless prayer.

 ***

  I opened my eyes and saw nothing.  After a moment I remembered the wild Frenchwoman, the flash of her blade, the snarl of her red mouth.  I did not think I was dead.  I blinked but saw only darkness, heard only silence.  My throat was parched. I tried to cough but only managed to croak.

A light touch on my arm, a soft voice, the gleam of a candle.  She smelt of starch and syrup of figs and, sliding a strong arm beneath my head, she held a cup to my lips. Water.  When I had taken enough I tried to put up a hand to signal her to stop but, to my horror, I saw that my arm was no longer there. 

She rustled away, brought the candle closer and let me see the shattered remains of my body and, when my tears came, she took me onto her starched bosom and let me weep.

©copyrightJudithArnopp2015