Where have all the wrenboys gone? Every year there seems to be less and less of them, and very soon they will become an endangered species. Has the government banned them and stopped them from parading in public? Are they now a proscribed organization, driven underground by power-crazed beaurocrats intent on outlawing all our great customs and traditions? If so, we must write to our local representatives immediately. Stage a mass protest. March on Dail Eireann. Take our case to Europe. Start a ?Bring Back The Wrenboys? campaign. Get Bono on the case. We cannot stand idly by and watch a way of life disappear forever.

The origins of the wrenboy tradition are shrouded in the mists of time. They are mentioned in both Cork and Waterford in the early eighteen hundreds, and Kerry writer and dramatist, Sigerson Clifford, immortalized them for all time in his famous ballad which is still sung in numerous taverns throughout the locality:

I`ll take my sleep in those green fields,

The place my life began,

Where the boys of Barr na Sraide

Went hunting for the wran.

And the poor old wren also comes in for a fair share of bad publicity. The wren ? ?an dreoilin? ? was once revered in Ireland as King of the Birds. It is said that at the dawn of history a contest was held among all the birds of the air to see which could fly the highest and be conferred with the title. The eagle soared higher than anyone else but lost the contest when a crafty wren hid in his feathers and, as the great bird faltered, flew off into the wide blue yonder and took the title by default.

The wren?s connection with St Stephen?s Day is also shrouded in controversy. St Stephen was the first Christian martyr. Legend has it that as St Stephen was being pursued by his enemies he hid in a bush but was betrayed by a chirping wren and was subsequently captured and stoned to death. For a long time afterwards, the wren, like St Stephen, would be hunted down and stoned to death.

Another legend states that during the Viking raids in the eighth century, Irish soldiers were betrayed by a wren as they sneaked up on a Viking camp in the dead of night. It is said that the hungry little wren began to peck at a few breadcrumbs left on the head of a drum. The rat-a-tat-tat of his beak woke the drummer who sounded the alarm and alerted the camp. The Irish were put to flight but swore vengeance on the wren and proceeded to hunt him down. Thus began the tradition of ?hunting the wran.?

Wrenboy batches were numerous in the locality a few years back and you couldn?t walk out the door on St Stephen?s morning without being assailed by a blast of ?Roddy McCorley goes to die, on the Bridge of Tuam today?, which seemed to be the only tune that many of the lesser-known groups were able to (badly) play.

Huge batches of wrenboys would gather from all parts of the parish. The Cahir batch would march proudly down from Glenashrone, loudly playing their various instruments and keeping in step to the beat of the bodhran. The Dromtrasna contingent would stride manfully down from Bogmount, attired in colourful costumes, their banners waving in the wintry breeze. Up along the Railway Road would come the massed ranks of the Knocknasna brigade, a lone piper playing at their head. From Abbeyfeale Hill they would come, and from Purt, from Meenahela, Fealeview and Kilconlea ? an army on the move, creating an unforgettable pageant of sight and sound, and of music and motion, on a crisp and frosty St Stephen?s Day in the morning.

Preparations for going out on the wran would commence in late summer when an extraordinary general meeting of interested parties would congregate in a local hostelry and elect a leader. The leader ? or King ? would be chosen by secret ballad, and was not averse to bribing the electorate with a few bottles of Guinness in order to attain high office. (The tribunals have put a stop to this practice!)

The next order of business was to appoint a treasurer to take care of the finances. This was a very important position, and only persons of impeccable character would be considered. Prospective candidates were put through a rigorous interview process and were examined in all aspects of higher economics as they were expected to take charge of large sums of ready cash. (No cheques were accepted.) It was feared that without proper supervision, this money might very well end up in some offshore account in the Cayman Islands! Honesty and accountability were therefore paramount and the successful applicant was obliged to take an oath of allegiance to the ?King?.

Auditions were then held to select suitable musicians and dancers. Melodeons, tin- whistles and bodhrans were the preferred instruments with which to extract funds from the hard-pressed populace. Fiddles were too difficult to keep tuned in cold weather, while trumpets and saxophones were regarded with suspicion, and electric guitars were considered to be implements of the devil?s music.

Musicians were expected to be familiar with all the traditional forms of music including slides, polkas, reels, jigs, hornpipes, etc. They were also required to possess some knowledge of classical music because there would always be some smart alec who might request a couple of bars of a Strauss waltz or a blast from Swan Lake, and if you couldn?t provide it, the news would be all over the parish before evening.

Dancers were chosen more for their stamina rather than for their terpsichorean skills. They would be expected to walk up to twenty miles over bad roads and bothereens and give as many as two hundred consecutive performances. And, on top of that, they would also have to dance in wellington shoes and hob-nailed boots. (Michael Flatley, how are you!)

The final order of business was to map out a suitable route. It was customary for batches to start off in their own particular townland before venturing forth into hostile territory. Sometimes, one group might get greedy and encroach on a rival?s patch before the allotted time. Umbrage would be immediately taken, and there was no more invigorating sight than seeing two batches of highly-indignant wrenboys, dressed in full regalia, squaring up to each other in belligerent fashion at the crossroads. Thankfully, common sense would usually prevail in these matters and very little blood would be spilled.

Having covered the country areas during daylight hours, all of the batches would end up in Abbeyfeale as darkness fell. And what a colourful spectacle they made, marching in time to the music up along Main Street and perhaps pausing to dance an impromptu polka in front of Fr Casey?s monument. The bars were packed and provided rich pickings with which to swell the coffers of these wandering merry minstrels.

However, discipline within the ranks would now be severely tested. Young fellows who were not used to the bright lights of a big town like Abbeyfeale were suddenly faced with the twin evils of loose porter and strong women (or visa versa). It took all of the leadership skills of the king to keep his troops from deserting the cause and abandoning themselves to the temptations that were suddenly accessible to gullible young country lads.

There were up to fifty licensed premises in the town at that time and it was a point of honour that all of them would be visited. The king would lead his group into each bar and, smiting his blackthorn staff upon the flag floor, he would solemnly chant an ancient dirge, handed down through the generations;

?The wran! The wran! The king of all birds.

On St Stephen`s Day he was caught in the furze.

So up with the kettle and down with the pan,

And give us a penny to bury the wran!?

The king would then retire to the sidelines where a full pint was ready and waiting, and the musicians and dancers would take centre stage. A lively polka-set was the standard musical offering, with customers invited to join the mad, whirling, stomping, yahooing figures out on the floor. Meanwhile, the second-in-command would be busy passing through the throng, outstretched cap at the ready, and all donations were gratefully accepted.

Thunderous applause and loud cheers would greet the end of the polka. Then somebody would request a song. The lead singer would step forward and suddenly it became so quiet that you could hear the proverbial pin drop as, with a voice as pure and as sweet as that of an angel in Heaven, she softly sang;

My young love said to me, “My mother won’t mind,

And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind.”

And she stepped away from me and this she did say

?It will not be long, love, till our wedding day.”

She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair,

And fondly I watched her move here and move there;

And then she turned homeward with one star awake,

Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Last night she came to me, my dead love came in.

So softly she came that her feet made no din.

She came close beside me and this she did say,

“It will not be long, love, ’til our wedding day.”

The conclusion of the song provoked another eruption of wild and sustained applause, while those of a more sentimental nature even shed a discreet tear. The landlord would insist on buying drinks for all the wrenboys, and the robust session of dancing and singing continued enthusiastically while these were being consumed.

Eventually, the king would rouse himself and rally the troops and lead them, somewhat reluctantly, out onto the street, ready for the next gig. (With one down, and forty-nine more to go, it was going to be a long evening.)

There was, of course, the little matter of the Wren Night still to be arranged, but that was something that needed to be approached with a clear head and a steady hand. And, as he led his bedraggled and already depleted army back into the fray, he suspected that this might be a task best left to tomorrow.