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CremationofSamMcGee
The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service
| Question | Answer |
|---|---|
| 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 |