The tiny brown wren I remember is one who has a big bird song
And once heard next time you hear him you will not get him wrong
He and his wife together they raise a big family
Up to ten tiny children with them I often times happened to see.
They live in groves and gardens and hedgerows far north and far away
I often heard the male birds singing in April as well as in May
As they flew around their territories from bush to hedge and sapling tree
The memories of the long gone years have not as yet forsaken me.
Though plain and very tiny they have a charm of their own
And in my old Homeland of Ireland the wrens they are very well known
St Stephen's day is also known as wren's day and in my homeplace of Millstreet
The song of the wren by wren boys sung at doorways out entertaining for a treat.
Though not the prettiest to look at and not much larger than a butterfly
His song a thing of great beauty as well as a thing of joy
Often from my bed in April I heard him sing at daybreak
When the wren sang in the hedgerow Him one could never mistake.
Despite the passing of the decades old memories with me remain
And in my many flights of fancy I hear him singing again
In groves and gardens and hedgerows never far from the homes of men
One of the most familiar of birds the tiny and plain brown wren.
And once heard next time you hear him you will not get him wrong
He and his wife together they raise a big family
Up to ten tiny children with them I often times happened to see.
They live in groves and gardens and hedgerows far north and far away
I often heard the male birds singing in April as well as in May
As they flew around their territories from bush to hedge and sapling tree
The memories of the long gone years have not as yet forsaken me.
Though plain and very tiny they have a charm of their own
And in my old Homeland of Ireland the wrens they are very well known
St Stephen's day is also known as wren's day and in my homeplace of Millstreet
The song of the wren by wren boys sung at doorways out entertaining for a treat.
Though not the prettiest to look at and not much larger than a butterfly
His song a thing of great beauty as well as a thing of joy
Often from my bed in April I heard him sing at daybreak
When the wren sang in the hedgerow Him one could never mistake.
Despite the passing of the decades old memories with me remain
And in my many flights of fancy I hear him singing again
In groves and gardens and hedgerows never far from the homes of men
One of the most familiar of birds the tiny and plain brown wren.
