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The Cremation of Sam McGee
Robert Service | Robert Service

Posted on 01/29/2010 1:57:46 PM 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 '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."

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.


TOPICS: Canada; Culture/Society; Miscellaneous; US: Tennessee
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1 posted on 01/29/2010 1:57:46 PM PST by Clive
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To: exg; Alberta's Child; albertabound; AntiKev; backhoe; Byron_the_Aussie; Cannoneer No. 4; ...

-


2 posted on 01/29/2010 1:58:15 PM PST by Clive
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To: Clive

I have another great Robert Service poem on my FR home page!


3 posted on 01/29/2010 1:59:04 PM PST by Joe 6-pack (Que me amat, amet et canem meum)
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To: Clive

“By the men who moil for gold; “

Rabbis?


4 posted on 01/29/2010 2:00:37 PM PST by jessduntno (Obama: not your typical Black Theologist/Marxist/Afro-AmeriKanner President...)
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To: Clive

Did this happen before or after the shooting of Dan McGrew?


5 posted on 01/29/2010 2:05:09 PM PST by Tucsonican
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To: Clive

:) I haven’t seen this in ages. Thanks for the smile.


6 posted on 01/29/2010 2:08:01 PM PST by altoinprogress
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To: Clive

Wonderful! A well-worn copy of “Collected Poems of Robert Service” sits in my bookcase.


7 posted on 01/29/2010 2:11:00 PM PST by SE Mom
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To: Joe 6-pack

Yeah, “The Men That Don’t Fit In” has been on my FR homepage for a long time, too.


8 posted on 01/29/2010 2:12:43 PM PST by PalmettoMason (MUSLIMS BE WARNED! I am armed. And my ammo has all been dipped in pork fat.)
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To: SE Mom; Clive

My grandfather used to recite this poem to me when I was little. Thanks for posting, Clive!

(I have a copy of the “Collected Poems of Robert Service sitting in my bookcase too, SE Mom!)


9 posted on 01/29/2010 2:14:59 PM PST by Dinah Lord
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To: Clive

TY! 0 degrees, in front of kero heater. Outside all day. My fav!


10 posted on 01/29/2010 2:26:55 PM PST by prisoner6 (I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered! I am a FREE MAN!)
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To: Clive

The poet of global warming.


11 posted on 01/29/2010 2:27:00 PM PST by TASMANIANRED (Liberals are educated above their level of intelligence.. Thanks Sr. Angelica)
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To: Clive

Thanks for the memory! My mother read that to me back when I was a wee lad...


12 posted on 01/29/2010 2:27:59 PM PST by Peet (<- A.K.A. the Foundling)
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To: Clive

Excellent...Thanks. A pal and I were talking about this over Christmas...read it in junior high...it’s very timely that you post it...


13 posted on 01/29/2010 2:28:07 PM PST by choctaw man (Good ole Andrew Jackson, or You're the Reason God Made Oklahoma...)
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To: Clive

Excellent!

Time to put a couple chunks in the stove.


14 posted on 01/29/2010 2:28:46 PM PST by SnuffaBolshevik
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To: Clive

My daughter is memorizing this for a competition at school.


15 posted on 01/29/2010 2:29:13 PM PST by luckystarmom
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To: Clive
My step-son, having graduated from college with a computer science degree, is going to drive north next week. He lives in Texas and will stop by in California on the way. He will pick up our used RV and drive it to Washington state, then take a ferry to Juneau, Alaska.

I think I will give him a copy of this poem. Thanks for posting!

16 posted on 01/29/2010 2:29:49 PM PST by txnuke (Obama votes "PRES__ENT" because he has no ID.)
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To: Dinah Lord

Wow! Mine too:)


17 posted on 01/29/2010 2:30:03 PM PST by SE Mom
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To: Tucsonican
Did this happen before or after the shooting of Dan McGrew?

Ah, my dear father's favorite poem.

18 posted on 01/29/2010 2:30:48 PM PST by conservative cat
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To: Clive

It’s a favorite!


19 posted on 01/29/2010 2:31:46 PM PST by Library Lady
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To: Clive

HA! Good stuff! :)

Thanks for posting it.


20 posted on 01/29/2010 2:36:21 PM PST by chilltherats (First, kill all the lawyers (now that they ARE the tyrants).......)
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