Posted on 02/14/2007 4:38:38 AM PST by Clive
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;
Then 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.
-
I'm not sure but I think I read that in school.
I'm guessing you're trying to say it's cold over your way these days? I'm familiar with the poem, and having grown up in northern Wisconsin (though I'm safe and warm now in St. Louis) I can relate.
I love that poem!! My dad used to read that (and other) poems to us when we were little. Brings back memories!
Robert Service, "The Bard of the Yukon" - quite appropriate on a snowy cold day as today. I can't hear this poem without thinking of Jean Shepherd, who did the best reading of it that I've ever heard.
I've been pestering Wife and Kidz with this for a couple of months. I think in the Spring I'll move on to "The Wreck of the Hesperus."
prisoner6
The Men That Don't Fit InThere's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
Yep, that's a typical Tennessean!
This Tennesean is headed that way in May. I'll look for the ashes.
IIRC didn't he do a reading of Sam McGee on the episode of Jean Sheperd's America? It was the one where he holed up in a blizzard at a truck stop at Donner Summit.
I've got my 16 year old sone hooked on "In God We Trust, All Other's Pay Cash!" Both his older brother and sister are Shep fans too.
His style really crossed boundaries and strikes a resonant chord.
I work with Jack Bogut...Pittsburgh radio legend...who is also a great story teller. Similar to Shep. Check out his webpage at
prisoner6
One of my all-time favorite poems.
We memorized that in grade school (Lachute, Quebec). Cold like that was common in those days.
That was cool!
We have a couple of Robert Service's books around here somewhere. I read from them to my girls while they were growing up. Sam McGee was for days like today. On the days like the day after the last election, I brought out this one:
Grin
by Robert W. Service
If you're up against a brusier and you're getting knocked about --
Grin.
If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt --
Grin.
Don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout,
Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;
Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out --
And grin.
This life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true
Of grin.
If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you,
So grin.
If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue;
Just cultivate a cast-ron smile of joy the whole day through;
If they call you"Little Sunshine," wish that they'd no troubles too --
You may -- grin.
Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough,
You'll grin.
Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough,
Yet grin.
There's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff;
You're a fighter from way back, and you won't take a rebuff;
Your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough --
Don't give in.
If Fate should down you, just get and take another cuff;
You bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff,
And grin.
My sister, a born actress, read that to me when I was 10 years old, in bed with a cold. She scared the crap out of me.
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 bore
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Allen Gore.
Now Allen Gore was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms, they blow.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, only Global Warmers know.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a son of a whore;
Though he’d often say in his bellicose way that it all would melt one day.
( Hey, this is fun!)
I believe he did read Sam McGee on one of his PBS-TV shows, and I think he also did "The Shooting of Dan McGrew". Imagine Donner Summit in a blizzard- perfect. I can't tell you how many times I've read and re-read "In God We Trust" but also "Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories", and "Fistful of Fig Newtons".
To this day, Shep remains the greatest storyteller I have ever heard, though I'll give Mr. Bogut a listen -and I thank you for the link.
Thanks, I have been meaning to find this one.
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