Come Along And
Ride This
Train
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 Magee.
And that very
night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the
stars overhead
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 the 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 gastly 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 these last
remains."
Now a promise
made is a debt unpaid,
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-
Oh 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 sno
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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