And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen.
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.
And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran
And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.
(Sigerson Clifford 1913-1985)