Yesterday I wrote about a game that was rife with potential dangers, but it was a holly-jolly time compared to the Christmas tradition of murder. In parts of England, Ireland and Wales, it was a tradition to kill a wren on Christmas Day and then to parade through the town on December 26, the Feast of St. Stephen, with the dead birds mounted on decorated poles, dancing, singing, and occasionally asking townspeople for money in order to provide the bird with a nice funeral (or at least to provide for the libations at the wake).
The origins of this tradition, as with most, are muddled, but it appears to be based on an old folk tale. The birds were arguing about which one was the “King of the Birds,” and they decided a contest of which one could fly the highest would settle this for all. The birds climbed, and one by one they fell off, until only the eagle continued climbing. As the eagle reached its apex, the crafty wren, the smallest of all birds, emerged from where it had been hiding in the eagle’s feathers and few a little bit further up. Why this rather clever gambit merited yearly hunting and public excoriation to celebrate the birth of Christ is unclear to me, but I lack imagination
The Wikipedia article about this tradition includes a poem that may have been sound by the Wrenboys.
The wren the wren the king of all birds. St Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze. Her clothes were all torn- her shoes were all worn. Up with the kettle and down with the pan. Give us a penny to bury the “wran”. If you haven’t a penny, a halfpenny will do. If you haven’t a halfpenny, God bless you!
Interesting that the ending of this murder song is known to us as part of the song, “Christmas is a comin’ and the goose is getting fat,” which, I suppose is it’s own murder song of sorts.
No matter, it’s good to remember these traditions of the more brutal history of the holiday. It is nice to know that we have left these behind for the much more humane traditions of sending picture Christmas cards with the entire family holding guns.