A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head--and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.
His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands--my God! but that man could play.
Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A helf-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars?--
Then you've a hunch what the music meant...hunger and might and the stars.
And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman's love--
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true--
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge,--the lady that's known as Lou.)
Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through--
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost dies away...then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill...then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell...and that one is Dan McGrew."
Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two--
The woman that kissed him and--pinched his poke--was the lady known as Lou.
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dan magrew
From guest gill loftus (contact)
I was delighted to find this poem, my father used to say it to me when I was a child. -
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Few poets can tell a tale the way Service can. his careful use of words paint the picture, their rhythm indicate the emotions. The scraps of conversation take the reader into the picture and the whole thing becomes real.
It is little wonder that, when it was first written, this was memorised and quoted as avidly as any pop-song today.
For a man born a Scot and working as a bank clerk, Service demonstrates a deep knowledge of the trappers way of life in those bleak Canadian days a hundred years ago. -
jag time ... in the second line ...could it be rag time... ? never heard of jag time ...
again the poetic narration of the bar incident is impressive... capturing all the details in perfect flow and rhyme...
love the way... the poet handles the cresendo narration with an element of suspense which meddles the reader's patience ... and makes us read it again to grasp the details...
an interplay of lust and power... makes it thrilling...
surprising is the sway of music and raw passion of the unrefined miner .. and his take in a dangerous domain...
whether plausible or not ... the edgy dramatic narrations makes its interesting ...
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jag time
Jag time is the correct spelling. Service may have been using it to describe music that may have been called rag or even jazz. However I believe it simply means loud and bouncy. An old expression -to go out on the jag- meant to go out and have a lively (drunken?) time.
Service does use rag time later in the poem but (at least in the versions on my bookshelf) that does not alter the fact that his first reference was jag.
Yout reference to unrefined miner is not necessarily warranted. There were many educated and literate men who took part in the gold rush alongside less refined ones.
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there are vivid descriptions ... of his unrefined nature... whether literate or not...
could be jag refers to the meaning 'jagged natured music'...
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A magical read
A companion to the Cremation of sam McCree. Just as gripping a tale. Again perfect rhyme and meter. Even rhyming line alliteration comes through perfectly. Another great read -
Being a Canadian, I have grown up with Service.I'ts a shame that not more people are familiar with his work. Were he an American, I dare say he would be much closer to the top of the popularity list.
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He is my inspiration and mentor. I have watched his "adventure" poems from time afar and enjoyed his evey tale,
no matter how distant nor far. -
I've never read Robert W. Service and I'm certainly glad my attention was called to him.
M -
One if not the best poet of his time. I love to read his work and I also loved the poem "The Creamation Of Sam Magee". His words always leave me in awe. This one was no exception. Great work.
Avril
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I love Service. So glad he made Poet of the Week. My favorite story poem of all time is "The Cremation of Sam Magee."
-K -
I just absolutely loved this poem ! kudos well done
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