Hunting the Wren

We'll hunt the wren, says Robin the Bobbin,
We'll hunt the wren, says Ritchie the Robin,
We'll hunt the wren, says Jack o' the land,
We'll hunt the wren, says every one.

Where, oh where? In yonder green bush.
How get him home? In the brewer's big cart.
How shall we eat him? With knives and forks.

Eyes to the blind, says Robin the Bobbin,
Legs to the lame, says Ritchie the Robin,
Pluck to the poor, says Jack o' the land,
Bones to the dogs, says every one.

The wren, the wren, is king of the birds,
St. Stephen's Day, he's caught in the furze,
Although he is little, his family's great;
We pray you, good people, give us a treat.