The phrase “Luck of the Irish,” is an irony. We are a spectacularly unlucky folk. Our skin burns in the sun, there’s a “Kick a Ginger Day,” and Julia Roberts butchers our accent. And then there’s the Homeland: we’ve been burned out, starved out, and beaten up and for centuries we didn’t own our own land. Even the lowly potato has been known to forsake us, for years at a time. Is it any wonder we like a wee drink?

That pot of gold at the end of the rainbow has got more to do with the pot of gold some of us were lucky to find in California, and little to do with home. Luck ain’t got nothing to do with us.

If we don’t have luck, what we do have, is a long and studied history of witching and spelling. Eire is the birthplace of the Druids, those fun, naked guys and gals in the robes and the all-together, paganism, and there’s where you’ll find your wealth spell. God helps those who help themselves, and so get to it my wee gasurs and cailin beags!

Our family is from County Clare in the mid-west of Ireland. This very same place was home to a famous curing girl, by the name of Biddy Early. Biddy ran her home like a pub, and her business like a man. She gave out “cures” to the sick, the needy, the poor and the blighted. She also read fortunes and got married a lot. Once she even married her stepson--this was all right because she hadn’t really gotten to know his father that well.

She got into trouble here and there for her curing ways, for her herbs and her visions, but nothing too serious. It was parking ticket kind of trouble. She out-lived four husbands.

Biddy is famous, as much for her mouth as for her cures, and when she died even the Fathers of the Church had to admit that she’d done good by the community and was well-loved. But face it, Biddy was a witch.

(Witch or not, she died poor. Sadly, she had the luck of the Irish, herself).

She left behind a “wealth spell” just the same. If you’re looking for a fuller pocket, if you’re wanting more out of yourself than you’re getting, give it try.

You’ll need a candle and a trinket you’ll be likely to wear. A nice shamrock on a pretty gold braid is, of course, recommended.

In a darkened room, light your candle and swing your trinket over the flame. Say into the darkness, “Pendant swing/By all good means, wealth and riches come to me, wealth and riches come to me/by all good means, wealth and riches, come to me.”

The “come to me,” part is the point you want to make clear.

You might want to do that some time in the morning on our very favorite day, March 17, St. Paddy’s Day. When the sun’s over the yardarm, have a shot of whiskey do your magic spell and then get out there and celebrate the people. Parade and shout Irish blessings ‘til you’re hoarse. Here’s a couple to get you started:

“May the Lord keep you in his hand, and never hold his fist too tight!”

“May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you’re dead!”

“The road will rise to meet you, and the wind be at your back!”

We’re an unlucky, blessing people and wish the best for all. Now shut your gob and have a damn drink. We invented whiskey and the stethoscope, so drink until you’re dead and I’ll be the judge of that.

God love ya.

Susie Moloney is the author of the forthcoming novel The Thirteen (William Morrow an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers; Available March 27, 2012) about a coven of witches in suburbia; think "The Stepford Wives" meets "Desperate Housewives." Susie Moloney is not a witch, except maybe a little in the morning. Follow her on Twitter at: @Susiemoloney or visit her website at: