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The of Sam McGee

The Cremation of Sam
(Robert W. Service)

There are strange things 'neath the midnight sun
by the men who for gold.
The trails have their secret tales
that make your blood run cold.
The lights have seen queer sights
but the they ever did see,
was night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
I Sam McGee.

Now Sam was from Tennessee
the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to
'round the pole, God knows.
He was always cold, but the of gold
to hold him like a spell,
though he'd often say in his way
that he'd live in Hell.

On a day we were mushing our way
over the trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's
it stabbed a driven nail.
If our we'd close, then the lashes froze
'til sometimes we see.
It wasn't fun, but the only one
to was Sam McGee.

And that very while we lay packed tight
in our robes the snow,
and the dogs were fed, and the o'er head
were heel and toe,
he to me, and "Cap" says he
"I'll cash in trip, I guess.
And if I do, I'm that you
refuse my last request."

Well, he so low that I couldn't say no,
he says with a sort of a moan,
"It's the cursed cold, got right hold
'til I'm clean through to the bone.
Yet tain't being dead, it's my dread
of an icy that pains.
So I want you to that foul or fair,
you'll cremate my remains."

Well, a friend's last is a thing to heed,
so I swore I not fail.
We on at the streak of dawn,
but, God, he ghastly pale!
He on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his in Tennessee,
and before nightfall, a was all
that was of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that of death,
and I hurried on, driven
With a corpse half hid, I couldn't get rid,
because of a given.
It was to the sleigh, and it seemed to say,
"You may tax your and brains,
but you true, and it's up to you
to these last remains."

Now, a promise made is a debt
And the trail has its own code,
In the to come, though my lips were numb
In my heart, how I cursed load.
In the long, long night, by the lone
While the huskiers, in a ring
Howled out their to the homeless snows
Oh God! How I the thing.

And day that quiet clay
seemed to and heavier grow.
But on I went, though the dogs were
and the was getting low.
The was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not in.
And I'd often to the hateful thing
and it with a grin!

Then I came to the marge of Lake
and a derelict lay.
It was in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was the "Alice May".
And I at it, and I thought a bit,
And I at my frozen chum,
"Here" said I with a sudden cry
"is my cre-ma-tor-eum!"

Some planks I from the cabin floor
and I lit the fire.
Some coal I found that was lying
and I the fuel higher.
The flames just and the furnace roared,
such a you seldom see.
Then I burrowed a in the glowing coal
and I in Sam McGee.

Then I a hike, for I didn't like
to hear him so.
And the heavens scowled and the howled
and the began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot rolled
my cheeks, and I don't know why.
And the greasy smoke in an cloak
went down the sky.

I do not know how in the snow
I wrestled with fear.
But the stars were out and danced about
'ere I ventured near.
I was sick dread, but I bravely said
"I'll take a peek inside.
He's probably cooked, and time I looked."
the door I opened wide.

And sat Sam, looking cold and calm
in the heart of the roar.
He a smile you could see a mile,
and he said "Please that door!
It's fine in here, but I greatly
you'll let in the and storm.
Since I left Plumtree, in Tennessee,
it's the first I've been warm."

are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun
by the men who for gold.
The arctic trails have secret tales
would make your blood run cold.
The northern have seen queer sights,
but the queerest they did see
was night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
I Sam McGee.

AJS