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 seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."

On Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If your eyes you'd brush, the tears would gush, and every lash would freeze;
It was hard to look, but the huskies took a stubborn spell to freeze.

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's 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, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn, dare-devilish cold and pale.
The trail was bad, and the dogs were mad, and the mountain land was snowed;
But I swore with a grin that I'd stick it in, and I packed the corpse on the load.

There was not a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was chained to the sleigh, but it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those corpse remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies round in a ring
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I hated the thing!

And everyday of that quiet way the corpse seemed to grow and grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, then I swore I would not fail,
And I came at last to the margin vast of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict frozen fast.

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May";
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen corpse,
And "Here," said 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 coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames leaped high, and the furnace roar was a grateful sight to see,
And 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, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was greasy night in the glare and light, but I choked my dread away,
And I banged the door and I swore some more, and I sat on the deck to pray.

That furnace roared, and the chimney soared, and the smoke blew out in a cloud;
And I didn't know when the corpse was burned, but I knew that I shouldn't be proud.
So I took a peep, for I couldn't sleep, and the door was wide open thrown;
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar.

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."