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 cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint 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.
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Comments
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This is the 1st time of reading and I do wish I'd made the trip earlier. What a glorious piece of art this is. So funnym, with rhyme made of gold itself. I wonder how many times Service laughed as he wrote this - i bet he couldn't stay straight-faced for too long.
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Good ol' Sam...
From guest Krissa Lopez (contact)
My mother used to recite this to me when I was a little girl. I always loved it, mostly because she did such a good job reciting it. -
hi
From guest morgan pierce (contact)
i read this story in 7th grade I move shortly after that that school was my safehaven so when ever i fell sad i read this and remeber. -
the creepy and thrilling imagery ... grasps the attention of the readers till the very end...
and the poetic narration with a touch of humour... makes its enjoyable... -
Fantastic story
One of the easiest to read as the scan and rhyme never faltered from beginning to end. For a long poem it did not seem over long because of its complete hold on this reader. Maybe not everyone`s cup of tea but was certainly one for me. -
I have loved this poem since I was a very young girl
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My stomach growled for beast or fowl, how I longed for some meaty grub,
When suddenly a thought came to me, and I said, "Oh, there's the rub!"
My friend McGee had praised to me, countless times, the smoked ham from Tennessee;
So tender and mild, robust and wild, was this Southern delicacy.
"Such a ham," said Sam, "is an angel's shank cooked and cured in the Devil's furnace;
Why even a mouse that sneaks in the smokehouse could the Queen's own table grace."
My word, of course, is a sacred trust, and to make it good's my goal,
But honor is lost if bought at the cost of a goodly Christian soul.
And so I decided, my conscience unchided, that McGee's funeral pyre
Would serve higher ends, and make amends, for my situation dire.
There's more than one way to skin a cat, and it's no sin you'll agree,
To toast good Sam with a shank of ham born and reared in Tennessee. -
I read this poem last year in school, and I've read about nine times since it's really entertaining in a way, and gruesome all at once.
His use of internal rhyme and alliteration is something that I admire and envy, when I began writing 'poetry' I often rhymed but it was sometimes forced and I've given it up since.
Edited on Aug 01, 10:42 p.m. because ''. -
This is my favorite poem EVER! I read this so many times and it never gets old...
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this one and also the Shooting of Dan Mcgrew were the poems that were recited around the camp fire when I was a kid at camp or a counselor.....
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I am a great fan of Robert Service's poetry and first became acquainted with this ballad while at College.
A worthy addition to Old Poetry's library. -
Hey Hey! I know this poem!
I read it in 7th grade.
I liked it because of it's flow and rhythym, and it's rhyme.
Glad you put it on AP. I liked this one and I still remember it too.
Saiyuki -
i read this recently in school and i have to say i loved it it flowed so wonderfully and i had to check it out on AP
*'L for love'
*Carrie -
I remember my father reading this poem to me and my sister on a cold night---it gave me the creeps. Then I had to read it again in seventh grade. I remember being the only student in the class who had heard it before. The first stanza IS very mesmorizing and easily memorized. It just gets stuck in my head sometimes like a song.
-K -
Amazing poem, especially since Service had it all in his head before he actually wrote the poem and the internal rhyme, I absolutely love this poem. The first stanza quite addicting after you memorize it!! "Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge, I cremated Sam McGee."
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REMEMBER THIS POEM FROM MY SCHOOL DAYS i LOVE IT AND THANKS TO YOU i FOUND IT
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