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The Cremation of Sam

The Cremation of Sam
(Robert W. Service)

are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun
by the men who for gold.
The arctic trails have their secret
that would make 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.

Now Sam McGee was Tennessee
where the cotton and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to
the pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of
seemed to hold him a spell,
he'd often say in his homely way
that sooner live in Hell.

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

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

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

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

There a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried on, horror
a corpse half hid, that 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 promised true, and up to you
to cremate these remains."

Now, a promise made is a unpaid
And the trail has its own code,
In the days to come, though my were numb
In my heart, how I that load.
In the long, night, by the lone firelight
While the huskiers, round in a
Howled out woes to the homeless snows
Oh God! How I the thing.

And every day that quiet
to heavy and heavier grow.
But on I went, though the were spent
and the grub was low.
The trail was bad, and I half mad,
but I swore I not give in.
And I'd often sing to the hateful
and it harkened 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 I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the fire.
Some I found that was lying around
and I the fuel higher.
The flames just soared and the roared,
such a blaze you see.
I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal
and I in Sam McGee.

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

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

And there sat Sam, looking and calm
in the of the furnace roar.
He wore a smile you see a mile,
and he said "Please close door!
fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the and storm.
Since I left Plumtree, in Tennessee,
it's the time I've been warm."

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

AJS