THE CREMATION OF SAM McGEE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have there secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

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 a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over
The dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parkas fold it
Stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till
Sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper
Was sam McGee.

And 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 not
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 the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead it's my awful dread of
The icy grave that pains;
So I want you to sware 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; but God!
He looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that
Was left of Sam McGee.

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,
Howeled out their woes to the homeless snows;
O God! How I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy
Amd 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 harkened 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-emum."

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 just soared, and the furnace roared;
Such a blaze you seldom 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 icy cold, but the hot swear rolleddown my
Cheeks, and I don't know why:
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went
Streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled
With grisley fear
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: I'll
Just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

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, its
The first time I've been warm.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

By: Robert W. Service