Little is known of Patrick's early life, though it is known that he was born in Roman Britain in the fifth century, into a wealthy Romano-British family. His father and grandfather were deacons in the Church. At the age of sixteen, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken captive to Ireland as a slave

While he was a slave, it is rumored that he experimented with hollow reeds grown in a nearby marshland and found that by carving the tips of them, he could make a sound, somewhat like a quacking duck.

Having a knack for carving, a musical ear, and a scientific curiosity leading to experimentation, young Patrick discovered that by making the reeds different lengths, they would actually make different notes.

However, the chilled Irish fens of County Mayo took their toll on the young enslaved boy, and he developed a long-standing, croupy cough. And for a time, Patrick could not blow on the reeds.

Tthe family that he worked for raised and slaughtered pigs. In some cases, they’d preserve the pig hides. As the work was grueling, the coarser parts of it were often relegated to young Pat.

And, necessity being the mother of invention, Patrick envisioned a way to take the pig hide, seal it completely but with egress spots for his reeds to extend from out of it--thus creating a supply of air.

He immediately realized that he must have a way for air to enter the sealed pig skin, so he attached a reed with which he could fill the pig skin so that it could then come out of the the other reeds.

Initally Patrick started with 10 reeds protruding from the skin, and quickly determined that neither he, nor the bag could hold enough wind to make all of the reeds function.

So after a year of experimentation, he ended up with the optimal three reeds which all kept their same individual tune, and one reed with little holes in it, that he used to play a little melody on.

Unfortunately the noise was ghastly. The people who had enslaved him kept telling him, “Stop blowing in that thing. You’re scaring all the pigs.”

Patrick kept thinking, “If only there were a way I could practice this thing, I know I could get better at it, and the townsfolk would cease brandishing their pitchforks at me.”

But one night, as he was shirking off to the moor to sneak in some midnight practice away from everyone, he detected the townsfolk with torches and various forms of cutlery coming straight at him.

He fled as fast as he could, and managed to escape. Hiding by day and moving by night, he made his way away from his captors and the village to the east coast, where he found a kind fishermen who agreed to take him to the mainland of Great Britain.

Whilst on the boat traveling from Donaghadee, Ireland to what’s now the Scottish Coast, Patrick extracted his one possession and began blowing in it.

Though the captain of the vessel was known in the region as being a gentle man, it is said that he looked young Patrick in the eye and said, “If ye dinna stop caterwauling with that dumb thing, I’m ginta put ye and it over the side. And I mean it.”

When the boat reached the port, Patrick, being very frustrated that no one appreciated his instrument, decided that people in mainland Britain would have a more receptive ear for his invention.

He went up and down the little hamlet proclaiming that he would be performing a special musical presentation at sunset in the town commons.

The villagers and folks from the countryside, always liking a little distraction, turned out in droves. Patrick, standing by the blazing bonfire, announced his first song entitling it, “Metaphor for an Irish Pig Farm.”

Patrick, caught up in the bliss of the sound of his instrument as he started to play, completely missed the reaction his music was having on the town folk.

Several had their hand clamped to their ears, their face in a grimace of pain. One elderly man went into convulsions and lay writhing on the ground.

Children were crying projectile tears while their mothers tried to both comfort them and cover their own ears at the same time.

No one knows where the pitchforks came from, but Patrick found himself, once again dodging them, as they speared through the air towards him.

As it was, there was a small church, just around the corner, called St. Joseph’s, and Patrick flew through the door. Slamming it behind him, he heard three pitchforks twanging as they embedded themselves on the other side of the door.

The country priest, who turned out to be a certain Father Fogarty, was kneeling at the chancel in earnest supplication to God to deliver him from the awful, screeching noise from that had been coming from somewhere outside.

Patrick, in hearing the actual words of the prayer, quickly slipped his invention between two pews.

Patrick cleared his throat, and Fr. Fogarty arose from his prayers. His shrewd eyes taking in Patrick, his dress, and the ugly, pig-skin thing sticking out from between the pews.

“So you’ve come here to be a priest, have ye, boy?” the Father queried with a keen look.

Patrick began, “Well actually…” He was interrupted by two more pitchforks slamming into the door behind him.

Fr. Fogarty said, “I’ll get the townsfolk to replace the door, lad. But I dunno if I can get you out of here alive without something from ye. We're always looking for devout young men to join our fellowship of doing the Lord's work."

Patrick had a revelation.

In 432, Patrick was called back to Ireland, though as a bishop, to preach God's salvation the Irish, and indeed he was successful at this, focusing on converting royalty and aristocracy as well as the poor.

Irish folklore tells that one of his teaching methods included using the shamrock to explain the Holy Trinity (the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit) to the Irish people.

When the Irish would find the four leaf clovers, they would say, “Aye… the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and that last one’s for Patty.”

After nearly thirty years of teaching and spreading God's Word he died on 17 March, 461 AD, and was buried at Downpatrick, so tradition says.

Although there were other more successful missions to Ireland from Rome, Patrick endured as the principal champion of Irish Christianity and is held in esteem in the Irish Church.

(As for the ugly pigskin device left behind in Fr. Fogarty’s care, the canny priest took it with him on a trip to Kilmarnock and sold it to two fairly well-off brothers who lived there, describing it as the “latest rage from Ireland.”

The two brothers purchased it, in spite of repeatedly commenting, "How can anyone stand the noise this thing makes?"

Fr. Fogarty used the gold piece from the sale of it to add a small narthex to St. Joseph’s west side. And after a few years, and a little perfecting, the two Scots in Kilmarnock opened a small shop with a hand painted sign that read, “Bagpipes. The latest rage from Ireland.”)

Some of the above content is from Wikipedia--some from a Leprechaun named Bob.