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
That 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 'til 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 'til 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."
Now 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, 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
'Til 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 crematorium."
So 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 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 plum tree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time that 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