The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert Service | 2008-02-27 | Robert Service

[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.

[Little Bill]

A branch of my family went to Alaska during the gold rush and decided that lumber was more profitable, still there as far as I know.

My Old man had a picture of a Brown Bear that one of them Shot and skinned out. Close to 18 feet with out the Guts and meat, paw to paw. had it nailed to the end of his house.

[Little Bill]

There'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.

If you have any Scots Irish Blood in you this will resonate.

[investigateworld]

Luv it!

What say you Alouette?

[andy58-in-nh]

If you have any Scots Irish Blood in you this will resonate.

Well, my wife does, but the only Scotch I have is in my liver. One of my favorites, though.

[MHGinTN]

Fabulous! Brilliant! ... Warms my old heart indeed. Now, if you can find “The Haunted Pond” for me, I’d be much obliged, for my memory ‘s failin’ and I can’t recall how my Grandpa said it all. Oh I kin recitate Darius Green and Little Orphan Annie, but that pond just seems to have slipped away. ... Somethin’ about a merry maid down on the Pee Dee in SOuth Caroline, but the part about Daddy Joe, well I don’t recollect how that did go.

[MHGinTN]

Tis a terrible thing indeed
That a man would smoke a poisoned weed
To burn his hands and scorch his clothes
And make a chimmney out of his nose.

[Larry Lucido]

And then what happened?

And then I screamed, "Oh, sh!%! The dead guy's talking!"

[Little Bill]

You can tell if you have any Scots Irish in you: You look at the peoples republic and say; "How much money can I get from these people to day."

In the old days, you would sneak across the boarder steal their cattle, impregnate their women, all cousins anyway, and return home happy. With the commies in Concord these days may be waining.

[bannie]

What made you bring this up? It’s a great poem, but I just wondered...

[bert]

Tennessee Yukon bump...

I was privileged to visit the Yukon gold fields last year.

The country is just fantastic

[HuntsvilleTxVeteran]

Country song that is like Robert Service lyrics.
***
I was born in Saginaw Michigan I grew up in a
house on Saginaw bay
My dad was a poor hard working Saginaw fisherman
Too many times he came home with too little pay

I loved a girl in Saginaw Michigan the daughter
of a wealthy wealthy man
But he called me that son of a Saginaw fisherman
And said I wasn’t good enough for his daughter’s hand

That’s why I went up to Alaska searchin’ around for gold
Like a crazy fool I was diggin’ in the frozen ground so
cold
But with each new day I pray I’d strike it rich and then
I’ll go back home and claim my love in Saginaw Michigan

I wrote my love in Saginaw Michigan I said honey I’m
comin’ home please wait for me
And you can tell your dad I’m coming back a richer man
I’ve hit the biggest strike in Klondike historyn

So her dad met me in Saginaw Michigan
He gave me a great big party and we served champagne
Then he said son now you’re a wise young ambitious man
Now won’t you sell your father-in-law your Klondike claim

So now he’s up there in Alaska diggin’ in the cold cold ground
Why the greedy fool is lookin’ for the gold I never found
It serves him right and no one here is a missin’ him
Least of all the newly weds of Saginaw Michigan
Least of all us newly weds of Saginaw Michigan (Saginaw Michigan)

[Mike Darancette]

Iv’e got that poem and others on MP3 read by Hank Snow. Really good.

[Clive]

What made you bring this up? It’s a great poem, but I just wondered...>/i>

Cold weather and more snow in the past fortnight than in the whole of last winter.

And outrageous heating gas bills.

This in the face of Tennessean Al Gore having promised Global Warming.

[SE Mom]

God, I love Robert Service- have the “Collected Poems of Robert Service” in my bookcase- we used to read him to my son when he was growing up....in lieu of another computer game.

He LOVED them (and does to this day)!

[Mike Darancette]

Here it is By Hank Snow on Youtube. HERE

[RinaseaofDs]

Outstanding!!!

This was my grandmother’s favorite poet, and her favorite poem.

I recited the last stanza at her eulogy.

[Fishrrman]

By chance, I happened to visit the
alt.binaries.sounds.mp3.country
... news group earlier today, and there is a collection posted of Robert Service poems (including Sam McGee) being read by none other than Hank Snow.

You’ll need a newsreader capable of downloading and decoding yEnc binary files to hear them...

- John

[Scoutmaster]

I love reciting this poem on cold, cold campouts. Service was a down-an-outer ("for bread I often bummed a bite, and lousy bunks I knew") who had tried everything before writing The Shooting of Dan McGrew and The Cremation of Sam McGee. The royalties from those two basically allowed him to retire to France (where Service, a Canadian, drove ambulances in WWI). He has a great poem in answer to those who say his new-found weath and notoriety were "luck," which ends "my turning point in luck, you see, refulgently began, the night I roasted Sam McGee and perforated Dan."

All that said, the best -- the absolute hands down best -- Service poem for cold nights and campfires, is The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill. It's the story of a man who accepted money from a miner/trapper to find his body and bury it if he died in the wilds of the Yukon Territory -- apparently contracts to bury were common during the gold rush. The narrator finds Bill's body on the floor of his cabin, glittering with ice, frozen stiff with arms and legs outspread ("hard as a log and trussed like a frog"). He tries for days to thaw Bill out, with no luck. Finally, the narrator resorts to the only way he can think of to get frozen Bill in the coffin. The last line, delivered in a calm low voice around a campfire, cements a Boy Scout's memories of cold weather camping forever: "I often think of poor old Bill, and how hard he was to saw." When you finish, the silence is complete and look on the Scouts' faces is priceless.

It was my joy to recite Blasphemous Bill at a cold, New-Mexico-mountains-campfire at Beaubien, Philmont Scout Ranch, several years ago.

You should also read The Ballad of Athabasca Pete, whose main concern when going over a waterfall (having fallen out of a boat), is to keep his bottle of liquor from breaking.

Finally, find a copy of Bessie's Boil, about a shy young woman with a carbuncle very close to a delicate bodily opening, who goes to the hospital. She shows her dermatological outbreak to a man in a white coat, who sends her to another room for a second opinion from another man in white . . . and again and again until one of the men tells her to see a doctor about it -- on the floor below -- seems all of the physician offices have been relocated while the floor she's on is being painted.

If you haven't figured it out, I love Robert W. Service's work. I often recite him when the going gets tough on a backpacking trip. I've done miles and miles at Philmont to Robert W. Service.

Thanks for bringing back those memories!

[Scoutmaster]

Bessie's Boil

A Lancashire Ballad by Robert W. Service

(Read in yer best Lancaster brogue)

Says I to my Missis: "Ba goom, lass! you've something I see, on your mind."

Says she: "You are right, Sam, I've something. It 'appens it's on me be'ind.

A Boil as 'ud make Job jealous. It 'urts me no end when I sit."

Says I: "Go to 'ospittel, Missis. They might 'ave to coot it a bit."

Says she: "I just 'ate to be showin' the part of me person it's at."

Says I: "Don't be fussy; them doctors see sights more 'orrid than that."

So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the 'ospittel door

They tells 'er to see the 'ouse Doctor, 'oose office is Room Thirty-four.

So she 'unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: "Come in,"

And there is a 'andsome young feller, in white from 'is 'eels to 'is chin.

"I've got a big boil," says my Missis. "It 'urts me for fair when I sit,

And Sam (that's me 'usband) 'as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit."

Then blushin' she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows 'im the place,

And 'e gives it a proper inspection, wi' a 'eap o' surprise on 'is face.

Then 'e says wi' an accent o' Scotland: "Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,

But ye'd better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O'Niel.

He's special for biles and carbuncles. Ye'll find him in Room Sixty-three.

No charge, Ma'am. It's been a rare pleasure. Jist tell him ye're comin' from me."

So Misses she thanks 'im politely, and 'unts up and down as before,

Till she comes to a big 'andsome room with "Professor O'Neil" on the door.

hen once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: "All right."

So she enters, and sees a fat feller wi' whiskers, all togged up in white.

"I've got a big boil," says my Missis, "and if ye will kindly permit,

I'd like for to 'ave you inspect it; it 'urts me like all when I sit."

So blushin' as red as a beet-root she 'astens to show 'im the spot,

And 'e says wi' a look o' amazement: "Sure, Ma'am, it must hurt ye a lot."

Then 'e puts on 'is specs to regard it, and finally says wi' a frown:

"I'll bet it's as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.

I think it's a case for the Surgeon; ye'd better consult Doctor Hoyle.

I've no hisitation in sayin' yer boil is a hill of a boil."

So Misses she thanks 'im for sayin' her boil is a hill of a boil,

And 'unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: "Doctor Hoyle."

But by now she 'as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;

But she thinks: "After all, 'e's a Doctor. Ah moosn't be bashful wi' 'im."

She's made o' good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: "Oos there?"

"It's me," says ma Bessie, an' enters a room which is spacious and bare.

And a wise-lookin' old feller greets 'er, and 'e too is togged up in white.

"It's the room where they coot ye," thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi' fright.

"Ah got a big boil," begins Missis, "and if ye are sure you don't mind,

I'd like ye to see it a moment. It 'urts me, because it's be'ind."

So thinkin' she'd best get it over, she 'astens to show 'im the place,

And 'e stares at 'er kindo surprised like, an' gets very red in the face.

But 'e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,

Then 'e says wi' a shrug o' 'is shoulders: "Pore Lydy, I'm sorry for you.

It wants to be cut, but you should 'ave a medical bloke to do that.

Sye, why don't yer go to the 'orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?

Ye see, Ma'am, this part o' the buildin' is closed on account o' repairs;

Us fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin' the 'alls and the stairs."

[BallparkBoys]

My dad used to play this all the time....Of course it was on his freestanding cassette player that he used in the car on long trips. I have it on MP3 now and its great to think about my father when I hear this.....Thanks....