The Cremation of Sam McGee

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 '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."

Reminded me of this.

"The Face on the Barroom Floor" is a poem written by Hugh Antoine D'Arcy in 1887.

'Twas a balmy summer evening And a goodly crowd was there, That well nigh filled Joes' barroom At the corner of the square. As songs and witty stories Came through the open door, A vagabond crept slowly in And posed upon the floor.

“Where did it come from?” someone said, “The wind has blown it in.” “What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, rum or gin?” Here Toby, sic’ em, If your stomach is equal to the work, I wouldn't touch him with a fork, He's filthy as a Turk.

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In fact, he smiled as though he thought He had struck the proper place. Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts Among so good a crowd; To be in such good company Would make a deacon proud.

Give me a drink, that’s what I want. I'm out of funds you know, when I had cash to treat the gang, This lad was never slow. What? You laugh as though you think, This pocket never held a sou, I once was fixed as well, my boys, As any of you. There thanks, that’s braced me nicely.

God Bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, And my lungs are going fast.

Aye, give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what to do I'll tell you a funny story and in fact I'll promise two. That I was ever a decent man, Not one of you would think, But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill'er up, Joe, I want to put some life Into this old frame.

Such little drinks, to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers, that's the scene, and corking and whiskey too, Well, here's luck boys, and landlord, My best respects to you.

You’ve treated me pretty kindly, And I'd like to tell you how, I came to be this dirty sap, you see before you now. As I told you once, I was a man With muscle, frame and health, But for a blunder, ought have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that daubed on bricks or wood, But an artist, and for my age I was rated pretty good, I worked hard at my canvas, and bidding fair to rise, And gradually I saw, the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, It's called the “Chase of Fame.” It brought me fifteen hundred pounds And added to my name.

It was then I met a woman, now come the funny part; With eyes that petrified my brain, and sank into my heart. Why don't you laugh it's funny, that the vagabond you see could ever have a woman and expect her love for me.

But it was so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given, And when her loving lips touched mine, I thought I was in heaven.

Boys did you ever see a girl, for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like Venus De Milo, too beautiful to live, With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, And a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, it was she, for boys there never was, another half so fair.

I was working on a portrait, One afternoon in May, Of a fair haired boy, a friend of mine, Who lived across the way. My Madeline admired him, And much to my surprise, She said she'd like to know the lad, Who had such dreamy eyes. She didn't take long to find him, Before the month had flown, My friend had stolen my darling, And I was left alone.

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head. That jewel I treasured so, had tarnished and was dead. That's why I took to drink boys. Why, I never see you smile, I thought you'd be amused boys, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come, laugh like me. It's only babes and women that should cry. Say boys, if you give me just another whiskey and I'll be glad, I'll draw right here the picture, of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score; You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor. Another drink and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began, To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then, as he placed another lock upon that shapely head, With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture — dead! ”

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