And every day that quiet clay 
Seemed heavier and heavier to 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 cremator-e-um."

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, 'cause I didn't like 
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the  huskies howled,
And the winds 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 cold  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 toil for gold;
The Arctic trails have there 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.

ROBERT W. SERVICE

There are strange things done in the  midnight sun
By the men who toil 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 the 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 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, an' "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 the 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 that I'd 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.