I could not say no;Then he says with a sort of moan:it is the cursed cold, and it is got right holdTill I am chilled clean through to the bone.Yet 'tain't being dead -- it is my awful dreadOf the icy grave that pains;So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,You will 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;But God