The Cremation of Sam McGee

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Latest revision as of 07:07, 19 July 2025

Title: The Cremation of Sam McGee

Author: Segellion

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold; The frozen trails have their secret tails, that would make your blood run cold;

The northern lights have seen queer sights but the queerest they ever did see.Was the night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Same McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Skara Brae, 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, the the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

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, 'ill 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 the bone.

Yet 'taint being dead it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

I want you 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 ghostly pale.

Crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Skara Brae;

And before nightful 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 unpaind, and the trail has it's own stern code.

In the days to come, though my limps were numb, in my heart now I cursed that load.

The long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled at their woes to the homeless snows Oh 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 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 traice 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 crematorium'

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.

Do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere 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 look' ...then the door opened wide

And there sat Sam, cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and 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 the Plumtrees, down in Skara Brae, 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

(Robert W. Service) (1874-1958)