“Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow!
Leave some of thy ‘fuggan’[3] for bucca,
Or bad luck to thee to-morrow!”
But Tom took no notice and ate up every crumb, upon which the knockers changed their song to
“Tommy Trevorrow! Tommy Trevorrow!
We’ll send thee bad luck to-morrow;
Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan,
And not leave a ‘didjan’[4] for bucca.”
After this such persistent ill-luck followed him that he was obliged to leave the mine.
Bucca is the name of a spirit that in Cornwall it was once thought necessary to propitiate. Fishermen left a fish on the sands for bucca, and in the harvest a piece of bread at lunch-time was thrown over the left shoulder, and a few drops of beer spilled on the ground for him, to ensure good luck. Bucca, or bucca-boo, was, until very lately (and I expect in some places still is) the terror of children, who were often when crying told “that if they did not stop he would come and carry them off.” It was also the name of a ghost; but now-a-days to call a person a “great bucca” simply implies that you think him a fool. There were two buccas—