There wasn't 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 lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last 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 loathed the thing

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier 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, but I swore I would not give in
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay
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 chum
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum"