St. Patrick's Mole

The terrible tale of what really happened - why to this day there are no moles in Ireland. Prepare to be shocked... 

St. Patrick's Mole 

A Welshman once came to these shores
And wandrin’ he did go
Across dark bogs, and hills, and fields
And even Ballinasloe

He spoke to none just walked and walked
And whacked things with his stick
When locals saw his form appear
They said, Oh, not that prick! 

His name was Paddy and he loved leeks
Because he came from Wales
He also liked to chat with God
But that’s another tale

The years went by and Paddy thought
It’s time to settle down
I’ve had enough of wandrin’
Of roaming town to town

He found a little cottage 
With gurgling stream nearby
He set about some gardening
Put pigs into a sty

The Spring did come and Paddy planted
Spuds, and cabbages green
But he had not envisaged
A problem as yet unseen

So when his crops did flourish
As he prepared to reap reward
A tiny hillock did appear
As then did several more

What Devil’s work is this! he cried
As the veg did fade and wither
Pat prayed to God to no avail
But then he sensed a slither

‘T is those damn snakes! old Paddy wailed
I’ll show ‘em who’s the boss
He ran into his cottage
To fetch his rusted cross

Pat thrashed about the garden
Whacking serpents to and fro
He put upon them a terrible curse
The snakes they had to go

The next day Paddy woke at dawn
Still thrilled with what he’d done
He peered out through his window
No snakes were there, not one

But mounds and mounds of molehills
Had sprouted overnight
Poor Pat he fell upon the floor
Himself with cross did smite

I sent away the lovely snakes!
Pat he did cry out
I should have guessed it was the moles!
And then he saw a snout

Out to the garden he did run
A vengeance in his soul
He conjured up another curse
And cast it at the moles

The furry creatures shrivelled up
'Till naught was left but dust
Paddy danced a little jig
But he should have thought about the rest of us

Because we all love moles, well most of us
They’re strong and brave and blind
What’s not love about the mole?
Why was Patrick so unkind?

And so that’s why here on this Emerald Isle
There are no snakes, nor moles
It’s all the fault of old St. Pat
A Welshman with a pole.