The Cremation of Sam Mcgee

There are strange things done in the midnight sunBy the men who moil for gold;The Arctic trails have their secret talesThat would make your blood run cold;The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,But the queerest they ever did seeWas that night on the marge of Lake LebargeI 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 onlyknows.He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like aspell;Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live inhell."

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 drivennail.If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes wecouldn'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 thesnow,And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel andtoe,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."

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 ghastlypale.He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home inTennessee;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, horrordriven,With a corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid because of a promisegiven;It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax yourbrawn and brains,But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those lastremains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own sterncode.In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how Icursed 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 loathedthe 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 givein;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 frozenchum: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 youseldom 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 beganto blow.It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and Idon'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 peepinside.I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked," ... then the door Iopened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of thefurnace roar;And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please closethat door.It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold andstorm--Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I'vebeen warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sunBy the men who moil for gold;The Arctic trails have their secret talesThat would make your blood run cold;The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,But the queerest they ever did seeWas that night on the marge of Lake LebargeI cremated Sam McGee.