| Oh, the town, it climbs the mountains and looks upon the sea
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| At sleeping time or waking time, it’s there I’d like to be
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| To walk again those kindly streets, the place where life began
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| With the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
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| With cudgels stout they roamed about to hunt for the dreólín*
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| We searched for birds in every furze from Litir to Dooneen
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| We danced for joy beneath the sky, life held no print nor plan
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| When the Boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren
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| And when the hills were bleedin' and the rifles were aflame
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| To the rebel homes of Kerry the Saxon strangers came
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| But the men who dared the Auxies and fought the Black-and-Tan
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| Were the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
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| But now they toil in foreign soil where they have made their way
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| Deep in the heart of London or over on Broadway
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| And I am left to sing their deeds and praise them while I can
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| Those Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
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| And here’s a health to them tonight wherever they may be
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| By the groves of Carham river or the slope of Bean 'a Tí
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| John Daly and Batt Andy and the Sheehans, Con and Dan
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| And the Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren
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| When the wheel of life runs out and peace come over me
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| Just take me back to that old town between the hills and sea
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| I’ll take my rest in those green fields, the place where life began
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| With those Boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren |