“Buccra can’t come dere; say, dam rascal, why you no work?”
CHORUS
“Buccra can’t catch Duppy, no, no.”
CHORUS
Three calabashes, or gourds, with pork, yams, and rum, were placed on a small bench that stood close to the head of the bier, and at right angles to it.
In a little while, the women, singing-men, and drummers, suddenly gave a loud shout, or rather yell, clapped their hands three times, and then rushed into the surrounding cottages, leaving the old grave-digger alone with the body.
He had completed the grave, and had squatted himself on his hams beside the coffin, swinging his body as the women had done, and uttering a low moaning sound, frequently ending in a loud pech, like that of a paviour when he brings down his rammer.
I noticed he kept looking towards the east, watching, as I conjectured, the first appearance of the morning star, but it was yet too early.
He lifted the gourd with the pork, and took a large mouthful.
“How is dis? I can’t put dis meat in Quacco’s coffin, dere is salt in de pork; Duppy can’t bear salt,” another large mouthful—“Duppy hate salt too much,”—here he ate it all up, and placed the empty gourd in the coffin. He then took up the one with boiled yam in it, and tasted it also.