The Cremation of Sam Mcgee
by Robert W. Service


1> There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
2> 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.
3> 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.
4> And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
5> 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.
6> A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
7> There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
8> 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.
9> And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
10> Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
11> Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
12> Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
13> I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
14> And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
15> There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;

