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 th 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 cold 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 'tain't 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 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 couln'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. I
n 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 loathed
the thing.
And every day
that quiet clay seemed to heavier 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 harkened 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 that 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 peek
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 Tennesse, it's 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.
