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 cremated² 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 homely³ 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 lashes⁴ 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 'taint⁵ being dead-it's my awful dread⁶

    of the icy grave that pains；

    So I want you to swear that， foul⁷ or fair，

    you'll cremate¹ my last remains⁸.

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed⁹，

    so I swore I would not fail；

    And we started on at the streak¹⁰ of dawn

    but God！ he looked ghastly pale.

    He crouched¹¹ on the sleigh， and he raved¹² all day

    of his home in Tennessee；

    And before nightfall a corpse¹³ 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 lashed¹⁴ to the sleigh， and it seemed to say.

    "You may tax your brawn¹⁵ and brains，

    But you promised true， and it's up to you

    to cremate these last remains".

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid¹⁶，

    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 lone¹⁷ firelight，

    while the huskies， round in a ring，

    Howled out their woes¹⁸ to the homeless snows——

    Oh God， how I loathed¹⁹ 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 planks²⁰ I tore from the cabin floor

    and I lit the boiler²¹ 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 burrowed²² 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 scowled²³， 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 greasy²⁴ smoke in an inky cloak

    went streaking²⁵ down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow

    I wrestled²⁶ 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.

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