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 hed often say in his homely way that hed sooner live in Hell On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail Talk of your cold! through the parkas fold it stabbed like a driven nail If our eyes wed close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldnt see It wasnt 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 oerhead were dancing heel and toe He turned to me, and Cap, says he, Ill cash in this trip, I guess And if I do, Im asking that you wont refuse my last request. Well, he seemed so low that I couldnt say no then he says with a sort of moan Its the cursed cold, and its got right hold till Im chilled clean through to the bone Yet taint being deadits my awful dread of the icy grave that pains So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, youll cremate my last remains. You might also likeA pals 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 wasnt a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horrordriven With a corpse half hid that I couldnt 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 its 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 Id 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 crematoreum. 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 roaredsuch 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 didnt 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 dont 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 Ill just take a peep inside I guess hes cooked, and its 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 Its fine in here, but I greatly fear youll let in the cold and storm Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, its the first time Ive 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
mcgee, sam, lebarge, marge, trail