The Cremation of Sam McGee

poetry foundation ^ | 1907, | Robert W. Service

[virgil283]

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

[virgil283]

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 cursèd 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.

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ping...

[Flycatcher]

A woman I work with in the field once recited this poem while we were all sitting around the campfire. She's from Canada, and knows this poem by heart.

Lot of fun. Thanks for posting.

[Pelham]

Always loved the poems of Robert W. Service.

[Southside_Chicago_Republican]

A classic.

[SubMareener]

This is weird! I just listened to the late Chuck Smith recite this during a sermon on Proverbs to explain the difference between Hebrew and English poetry.

[MV=PY]

Never read it. Wonderful!

Thanks for posting.

[dainbramaged]

Lots of audio at youtube of Robert Service’s poems including the poet himself and Johnny Cash reciting this one.

[Liberty Valance]

bttt

[clintonh8r]

You must have watched the program about the Klondike gold rush.

[Tennessean4Bush]

Memorized this in 6th grade. Also memorized “Casey at the Bat”

[cva66snipe]

When I was 16 we took a family vacation from East Tennessee to Alaska allowing a month to drive up and back. It was my dad, mom, & I in a pick up with a camper shell we had built bunks in. I got to see Lake Lebarge, Service’s and Jack London’s cabins on the trip when we went through Dawson. When I was a kid I could recite all of The Cremation of Sam McGee and most of the parts of some of his other works like Dangerous Dan McGrew.

[Larry Lucido]

Never did like traveling with old Sam.

[Ken H]

Now that’s what I like, Service with a smile.

[Maceman]

You haven’t posted the whole thing.

I once memorized this entire poem for junior high school English class.

Now I can barely even remember my phone number.

[Publius]

One of my very favorite poems.

[JennysCool]

From the weather report I heard today, this sort of thing could be going on tonight all over the Midwest. Thanks, Al Gore!

[Prospero]

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight
Why, that's the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

[Arthur McGowan]

Ed Walker, it seems to me, used to play a recording of this in the old, old days when he was on WRC with Willard Scott. I mean in the early 1960’s! I suppose he played it once each winter. I know I heard it at least twice.

[Arthur McGowan]

Recited by the author:

http://youtu.be/JZG9kP9kAiY