Thi reight tichy are wrens, Robins are bigger.
But thiv moor ‘eart and pluck in their diminutive figure.
Thi sing reight loud, a beautiful song.
It’s all trills n wobbles and just bubbles along.
Thi flit past thee eyes, like rusty red fairies,
As thi ‘unt in the bushes for insects and berries.

Thi build nests all o’er, like downy soft purses.
And lay eggs six or seven, which the little hen nurses.
The cock’s a bit naughty he’s a bit of a lad.
He has nests all o’er, with hens that he’s had.
He does it to mek sure that his genes live on.
He int faithful to his missus, like the regal white swan.

Winter kills lots on ’em, thi so tichy tha sees.
Thi fall dee-ad and frozen, from frost covered trees.
Thi reight tichy are wrens, but with hearts like giants.
I’d mek ’em British bird not eagles nor robins reliant.
Thi worra wren on a farthing when I were a lad.
Wren farthings still seem like the most cash I ever had.

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