THE CREMATION
OF SAM McGEE
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
Robert W. Service