“A nigger, of course.”
“Ob course, an’ you’re right for once, which is such an unusual t’ing dat I ’dvise you go an’ ax de cappen to make a note ob it in de log. I’s a nigger, an a nigger’s so much more ’cute dan a white man dat you shouldn’t ought to expect him to blab his massa’s secrets.”
“Right you are, Moses. Come, then, if you won’t reveal secrets, give us a song.”
“Couldn’t t’ink ob such a t’ing,” said the negro, with a solemn, remonstrant shake of the head.
“Why not?”
“’Cause I neber sing a song widout a moral, an’ I don’t like to hurt your feelin’s by singin’ a moral dat would be sure to waken up some o’ your consciences.”
“Never mind that, darkey. Our consciences are pretty tough. Heave ahead.”
“But dere’s a chorus,” said Moses, looking round doubtfully.
“What o’ that? We’ll do our best with it—if it ain’t too difficult.”
“Oh, it’s not diffikilt, but if de lazy fellers among you sings de chorus dey’ll be singin’ lies, an’ I don’t ’zackly like to help men to tell lies. Howseber, here goes. It begins wid de chorus so’s you may know it afore you has to sing it.”