by Robert W. Service

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^{2 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^{3 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^{4 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^{5 being dead-it's my awful dread6}

of the icy grave that pains；

So I want you to swear that， foul^{7 or fair，}

you'll cremate^{1 my last remains8.}

A pal's last need is a thing to heed^9，

so I swore I would not fail；

And we started on at the streak^{10 of dawn}

but God！ he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched^{11 on the sleigh， and he raved12 all day}

of his home in Tennessee；

And before nightfall a corpse^{13 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^{14 to the sleigh， and it seemed to say.}

You may tax your brawn^{15 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^16，

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^{17 firelight，}

while the huskies， round in a ring，

Howled out their woes^{18 to the homeless snows}

Oh God， how I loathed^{19 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^{20 I tore from the cabin floor}

and I lit the boiler^{21 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^{22 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^{23， 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^{24 smoke in an inky cloak}

went streaking^{25 down the sky.}

I do not know how long in the snow

I wrestled^{26 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.