Author’s Note:

To begin the month of St. Patrick’s Day, I’m sharing a poem I first wrote more than twenty years ago. It’s a playful encounter with King Brian, the Leprechaun King, and it eventually inspired a much larger story set on Arranmore Island during the Great Hunger. The full tale will unfold here over the next two weeks, but today, I’m starting where it all began — with the poem Pot O’ Gold.

Pot O’ Gold

The king of the leprechauns has a pot o’ gold—‘tis so, for sure, some say.
I know it’s true, for I met the king while hiking one fine day.
’Twas over the hill and down the lane, past yonder babbling brook—
The sun was high, the wind was still, when I stopped for a better look.

He hadn’t seen me creeping up; I wanted to catch him blind.
If I could snatch the wee old king, his gold would soon be mine!
From behind I pounced and caught him fast—he wriggled in surprise.
I held him tight, he gasped aloud, and glared with narrowed eyes.

“My name be Brian, King of this realm!” the tiny fellow cried.
“If ye let me go, me buckoo, I’ll grant you fame and pride.”
“I know your tricks, ye cunning sprite—I’ve heard what happens next.
Quick as a wink, you’d vanish away if I got too relaxed!”

“I’ll give ye anything ye want—three wishes, yours to choose!
Be it strength, or health, or riches bright—what have ye got to lose?”
“I’ve no need for strength nor health, and tricks I won’t abide.
What I want, dear king, is your pot o’ gold—that’s what I’ve got in mind.”

“That’s all ye ask? So be it, lad. I’ll give it fair and square.
Just loosen up your grip a bit—I’ll show you where it’s kept, I swear!”
“Oh no,” said I, “Ye won’t slip free. I’ve heard that tale before.
You’ll grant the gold, or I’ll hold fast ‘til we reach my cottage door.”

“Ye win, me lad! The gold is yours,” said Brian with a grin.
“You’ll find it by your cottage door—just waiting to come in.”
I held him tight and made my way, no tricks, no chase, no games.
And sure enough, the pot was there—engraved with leprechaun flames.

I opened wide the cottage door, the golden gleam was true.
The king let out a merry laugh and said, “See? I came through!”
“You’re a grand old king,” I told him then, “and now my word I’ll keep—
You’re free to go back to your folk, across the hills so steep.”

“But grant me just one final wish—return your pot o’ gold.
I want no coin, no shiny prize, no treasure bright to hold.”
“But why, me lad? Ye earned it fair. You caught me good and bold.
What makes ye toss aside the chance to own a leprechaun’s gold?”

“Though gold is bright and tempting, it loses all its glow
Compared to having you, dear friend, and the joy you bestow.
What I wish for most is simple, and it rings more true than wealth—
I only want your friendship, king, in gladness and in health.”

“By saying it, ye’ve made it so,” King Brian did proclaim.
With twinkle bright, the gold was gone—but friendship stayed the same.
“Our bond shall be as strong as stone, and never shall it wane.”
And ever since, when I need cheer, he visits me again.

He stops by for a pint or two—we laugh, we toast, we sing.
No need for gold when you’ve a friend like Brian, the good wee king.
That gold’d be spent and long forgot, its luster faded fast—
But true friendship forged in fire and mirth is one that always lasts.

So if you’re hiking near the brook, with gold upon your mind,
And spot a sprightly little man, with beard and eyes that shine—
Don’t pounce upon his wiry frame or knock him off his throne.
Just tip your cap, and say hello… and leave his gold alone.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for reading the poem that sparked an entire story more than twenty years ago. Next time, I’ll share Part One of the full tale — a deeper look into Seamus’s world on Arranmore during the Great Hunger, and the moment he meets King Brian himself.

Feel free to share the story with friends, family, or any neighborly leprechauns who might enjoy a bit of Irish magic. Who knows — you might end up with a pot o’ gold yourself… or better yet, a lifelong friend.

Come back next time — the real story begins.