Under leaden skies and the threat of a thorough soaking, they came to Sandymount Green in their hundreds yesterday to play out one of the oldest of the capital's rekindled customs.
The 21st modern celebration of the Wren Boys in Dublin brought singers, dancers, mummers and stragglers on to the streets after midday for the annual charitable cacophony of cultural emblems.
Men, women and shoulder-hoisted toddlers from around the world joined the locals to sip mulled wine and Guinness, feast on paella and dance to mandola strings taut in the December chill.
The dress code was militantly casual, with white cloths adorned with Sellotaped leaves a popular choice.
Two Zimbabweans had come for the first time. Goretti and Prince were here on the recommendation of a friend, they said, and danced their way through some Dublin ballads, cappuccinos in hand.
"I like it," said Goretti, who has lived in the city for three years. "I'll come again next year. It's rare to see something so distinctly Irish. Usually it's all foreign."
Paddy and Nuala Buckley were there for the second year. "To be honest," said Paddy, "I don't think people in Dublin would know much about this; it's mainly a rural thing. But there's only rubbish on the telly."
There are two legends behind the celebration of the wren, with the bird not faring too well in either.
The most popular has the wren getting caught in a holly bush behind which St Stephen was hiding. The bird sang out in pain, thus betraying the saint's whereabouts to Roman centurions, who captured him. As a result, the wren had to be hunted, killed and buried at the end of the festivities on Stephen's Day.
That ritual has been forsaken, but yesterday the birds, wishing not to be seen to be provocative, kept away from Sandymount Green.
With no wren to bury, this year's funds will be passed on to the Order of Malta's maternity hospital in Bethlehem. Last year, €3,500 was raised.
As the event wound down, Johnny Moynihan, formerly of De Dannan, followed with a Joe Dolan number about sun- scorched seas and deserts and vultures, but in the biting wind he lost his key and had to start again. No matter. They sang, they danced, they drank - and the collection boxes strained under the weight of giving hands.