The Cremation of Sam McGee

[gray_marian]

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.


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 fold 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 cursèd 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 he 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 couldn'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 those 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.

In 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 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 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 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.


By Poet
Robert W. Service 1874–1958

[Keith Moody]

I think you have to have felt the cold to understand this song or verse. I do have the record of this and from time to time i play it.
nice one Marian.
keith moody
R635978

[Richard Quartermaine]

That is a beauty, Marian. In September 1955 I was delivering a new Ford across from Detroit to Los Angeles via Route 66 on my way to board the 'Orcades' in Frisco on my way home to Fiji and OZ. Somewhere along the way I called in to a bookshop and bought 'American Ballads naughty ribald and classic'. It is in a rather delabidated state now but I have had so much enjoyment from that little book. Here is one of my favourites.

American Ballads Naughty Ribald and Classic: Charles O'Brien Kennedy: Amazon.com: Books
RobertWService.Com : The Ballad Of Yukon Jake - Books and Poetry > Service Trivia - Archives
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFhJOqjv68I

NB. Atypo in the poem 'the wickedest horn read born
Just a boy and a parson's joy

[Captain Kong]

There is one of Robert Service Poems I have been trying to get a copy of, It brings back memories of Mary a beautiful Barmaid I once knew 55 years ago. but I have not seen it since in all that time.

The Barmaids Lament.

He lays beside me in my bed
upon my breast he lays his head
Oh how I wish that I were dead
for he sails in the morning.
I feel his baby in my womb
but in his life we have no room
.........
.........
for he sails in the morning.
cannot remember the rest.
Brian.

[gray_marian]

Could it be this one Captain?

"Florrie"

Because I was a wonton wild
And welcomed many a lover,
Who is the father of my child
I wish I could discover.
For though I know it is not right
In tender arms to tarry,
A barmaid has to be polite
To Tom and Dick and Harry.

My truest love was Poacher Jim:
I wish my babe was his'n.
Yet I can't father it on him
Because he was in prison.
As uniforms I like, I had
A soldier and a sailor;
Then there was Pete the painter lad,
And Timothy the tailor.

Though virtue hurt you vice ain't nice;
They say to err is human;
Alas! one pays a bitter price,
It's hell to be a woman.
Oh dear! Why was I born a lass
Who hated to say: No, sir.
I'd better in my sorry pass
Blame Mister Simms, the grocer.


Robert William Service

Here's another I found whilst looking

"Sourdough's Lament" Author unknown


When I was a Klondike high-roller
I tilted my poke with the best,
Through climate at times might be polar,
I'd plenty of hair on my chest.
Now while I've no trace of rheumatics,
And maybe I shouldn't complain,
I'm worried because I just ain't what I was,
And I wish I was Eighty again.

I still have my love for the ladies,
Chuck grand-mannies under the chin;
Yet, Having a horror of Hades
I'm kindo' allergic to sin.
Aye, though the hoch-bird be a-singing,
I'm deaf to its dulcet refrain;
When the going gets rude you've gotta be good,-
Gee! I wish I was Eighty again.

Some claim that the Nineties were naughty,
Them statements I grieve to reverse;
You've got to be humble - not haughty
To jiggetty-jog of the hearse.
I blink at the blonde in bikini,
I shrink from the wink of champagne . . .
But reforming, by heck! What a pain in the neck!
Gosh! I wish I was Eighty again!

[gray_marian]

#3, Will try and obtain a copy. As to the song and the wonderful photographs Richard, thank you. Will send to son & hubby tout de suite

[Captain Kong]

H I Marian They were not the ones, The one I used to know is the one I started but have forgotten the rest.
Thanks anyway They were quite good to read
Cheers
Brian

[Richard Quartermaine]

I think I must have locked on the the same site as you Marian. I went through the names of 834 and opened some that I thought might be. But no. There were none in the list by the name of Barmaid's Lament in there Brian. I'll keep it in mind. What a brain! Born in Preston Lancs, took no crap, met and wed a French lady on Vancouver Island and went off to the South of France with her and he lived to eighty four. What stamina! Richard

[Captain Kong]

I w as sure it was Robert Service, maybe it was someone else, Thanks for the help.
Cheers
Brian

[Doc Vernon]

Sailors Sweetheart

He sleeps beside me in the bed;
Upon my breast I hold his head;
Oh how I would that we were wed,
For he sails in the morning.

I wish I had not been so kind;
But love is fain and passion blind,
While out of sight is out of mind,
And he ships in the morning.

I feel his bairn stir in my womb;
Poor wee one, born to bitter doom;
How dreary dark will be the gloom,
When he goes in the morning!

A sailor lad has need to court
A loving lass in every port;
To him it's just a bit of sport . . .
My heart-break's in the morning.

Went through all his Poems too he has some very good ones!
Cheers

Robert William Service Poems - Poems of Robert William Service - Poem Hunter

I still like your one called "Bonza Bay" Capt! Great memory Poem that was!