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CremationofSamMcGee
The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service
Question | Answer |
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The Cremation of Sam McGee | By Robert Service |
There are strange things done | in the midnight sun |
By the men who moil for gold | The Arctic trails have their secret tales |
that would make your blood run cold | The Northern Lights |
have seen queer sights, | but the queerest they ever did see |
was that night on the marge | of lake lebarge |
i cremated sam mcgee | now sam mcgee was |
from tennessee | where the cotton blooms and blows |
why he left his home | in the south to roam |
round the pole | god only knows |
he was always cold | but the land of gold |
seem to hold | him like a spell |
though he'd often say | in his homely way |
that he'd sooner live in hell | on a christmas day |
we were mushing our way | over the dawson trail. |
talk of your cold! | THROUGH THE PARKS'S FOLD |
IT STABBED LIKE A DRIVEN NAIL | if our eyes we'd close |
then the lashes froze | till sometimes we couldn't see |
it wasn't much fun | but the only one |
to whimper | was sam mcgee |
and that very night | as we lay packed tight |
in our robes | beneath the snow |
and the dogs were fed | and the stars o'erhead |
were dancing heel | and toe |
he turned to me | and "Cap" says he |
I'll cash in this trip, | I guess |
and if i do | I'm asking that you |
won't refuse | my last request |
well, he seemed so low | that I couldn't say no |
then he says | with a sort of moan |
it the cursed cold | and it's got right hold |
till I'm chilled clean through | to the bone |
yet tain't being dead | it's my awful dread |
of the icy grave | that pains |
so i want you to swear | that soul or fair |
you'll cremate | my last remains |