I belong to the sea, but I'm shaped like something that belongs to the night sky. The most famous of my kind is called Patrick.

Up a hill two children went, a mission on their mind, something heavy on their side. They fetched from a well and hurried down the hill. It swings by one handle, from hillside to shore, A farmer’s friend and seaside builder. What am I?

I can be given without generosity. Taken without theft. Owed without law. Broken without touch. Lost without leaving. What am I?

Fuelled by oil stored in me, Pilots might do a roll of me, To avoid a bullet shot out of me. People might play with monkeys released from me, Or drink far too much ale stored within me, And the next day feel that they'd scraped the bottom of me

I can be a very violent action, or the most epic social event. However, if you add three to me, I become endearingly shy.