‘Twas on a bright St. Patrick's morn in Irish days of yore,
a lad beheld a tiny man outside his cottage door.
Arrayed in clothes of emerald green beside a crock of gold,
he stood not half the youngster's size, but looked ten times as old.
The wee man bowed politely as he introduced himself ...
"A leprechanun is what I be, first cousin of the elf."
"The sun's my faithful guardian, each flower is my friend,
my home lies over yonder just beyond the rainbow's end."
And then for hours the little man regaled the lad with tales
of leprechauns who played in mountain glens and forest vales.
"But you'll not find us there," he said, "because ‘tis meant to be
that from this day no human eyes shall see the likes o' me."
"Though sure ‘tis true if you believe in luck and love and joy,
if you believe in hopes and dreams, I'll be with you, my boy."
Then in a flash he disappeared ... yet in his magic way,
he visits Irish hearts again each St. Patrick's Day.
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