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The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun
       By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic 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 
 
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 parka's 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
       won't 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 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.
 
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 these 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-
       Oh 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"!
 
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 sweat rolled
       down 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 grisly 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,
       it's the first time I've been warm". 
 
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
       By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic 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 


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