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On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Cap, I’ll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.
It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone. Yet ‘taint 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.
i will not fail
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given
I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and saw a boat jammed into the ice
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.
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.
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