It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.Īnd that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,Īnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe, If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail. On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.” He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, The Arctic trails have their secret tales There are strange things done in the midnight sun
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