Courtesy of Wikipedia

Originally posted on Monday, March 17th, 2014

It is well known fact that every leprechaun is possessed of a pot of gold.

From Irish Wonders by D. R. McAnally, Jr. (1888):

“Mind ye,” said a Kerry peasant, “the onliest time ye can ketch the little vagabone is whin he’s settin’ down, an’ he niver sets down axceptin’ whin his brogues want mendin’. He runs about so much he wears thim out, an’ whin he feels his feet on the ground, down he sets undher a hidge or behind a wall, or in the grass, an’ takes thim aff an’ mends thim. Thin comes you by, as quiet as a cat an’ sees him there, that ye can aisily, be his red coat, an’ you shlippin’ up on him, catches him in yer arrums.

“‘Give up yer goold,’ says you.

“‘Begob, I’ve no goold,’ says he.

“‘Then outs wid yer magic purse,’ says you.

“But it’s like pullin’ a hat full av taith to get aither purse or goold av him. He’s got goold be the ton, an’ can tell ye where ye can put yer finger on it, but he wont, till ye make him, an’ that ye must do be no aisey manes. Some cuts aff his wind be chokin’ him, an’ some bates him, but don’t for the life o’ ye take yer eyes aff him, fur if ye do, he’s aff like a flash an’ the same man niver sees him agin, an’ that’s how it was wid Michael O’Dougherty.

“He was afther lookin’ for wan nigh a year, fur he wanted to get married an’ hadn’t anny money, so he thought the aisiest was to ketch a Luricawne. So he was lookin’ an’ watchin’ an’ the fellys makin’ fun av him all the time. Wan night he was comin’ back afore day from a wake he’d been at, an’ on the way home he laid undher the hidge an’ shlept awhile, thin riz an’ walked on. So as he was walkin’, he seen a Luricawne in the grass be the road a-mendin’ his brogues. So he shlipped up an’ got him fast enough, an’ thin made him tell him where was his goold. The Luricawne tuk him to nigh the place in the break o’ the hills an’ was goin’ fur to show him, when all at wanst Mike heard the most outprobrious scraich over the head av him that ‘ud make the hairs av ye shtand up like a mad cat’s tail.

“‘The saints defind me,’ says he, ‘phat’s that?’ an’ he looked up from the Luricawne that he was carryin’ in his arrums. That minnit the little attomy wint out av his sight, fur he looked away from it an’ it was gone, but he heard it laugh when it wint an’ he niver got the goold but died poor, as me father knows, an’ he a boy when it happened.”

Perhaps the presence of sly leprechauns deep in the catacombs of 33 Liberty Street, New York City, explains the slow pace of repatriation of Germany’s national gold there stored?

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to all.