The Cremation Of Sam Mcgee

[Em]Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the [C]cotton blooms and blows.
Why he [Em]left his home in the South to roam ‘round the [C]Pole, God [D]only [Em]knows.
He was [Em]always cold, but the land of gold seemed to [C]hold him like a spell;
Though he’d [Em]often say in his homely way that “he’d [C]sooner [D]live in [Em]hell”.

One [Em]cold, cold night, as we lay packed tight in our [G]robes beneath the snow,
The [Em]dogs were fed, and the stars overhead were [G]dancin’ heel and [D]toe,
He [Em]turns  to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’m gona [C]cash in this trip, I guess;
And [Em]if I do, I’m asking you won’t [C]refuse my [D]last [Em]request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; and he says with a sort of a moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet it ain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread in the icy grave that pains;
I want you to swear, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

Now a pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would’t fail;
We started on at the streak of dawn; but Oh! he looked so pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
But by nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

A promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart I cursed that load.
In the long, long nights, by the lone firelights, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Cried out their woes to the homeless snows — how I hated the thing.

Then I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
She was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice she was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” says I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coals I found lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames soared, the fire roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my neck, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streakin’ cross the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with my fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’m gona take a peek inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . and the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
He wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close the door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’re gona let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, this is the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who toil 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 the night on the marge of Lake Lebarge that I cremated Sam McGee