Dawson City, YT - The Cremation of Sam McGee

The Cremation of Sam McGee

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil (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 that night on the marge (edge or margin) 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 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 cursèd 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 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— 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 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 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 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.

Heard this poem? Or at least the last line? Well, I have but never knew much about it. Today I learned. It was a poem by Robert Service, a renowned Canadian Poet.
Then there are these immortal lines:

        ‘Please, Mother, don't stab Father with the breadknife,
        Remember ’twas a gift when you wed,
        But if you must stab Father with the breadknife,
        Please use another for the bread.’

Who’s heard of Robert Service? Well, all of Canada where he is as famous as Longfellow or Poe here in America. And, right here in Dawson City is a cabin where he lived - one of our goals for the day.

He was born in Scotland in 1874 and died in 1958. He grew up in Scotland and tried a career in banking but immigrated to Canada in 1886 to try his hand at being a cowboy. Tough work and after trying his hand at other kinds of work, he finally returned to banking. He was good and kept being transferred further north and finally to Dawson City. During this time he entertained others with poetry and then began to write his own. His first collection, called ‘Songs of the Sourdough’ was published in 1907 and made him a rich man thanks to such poems as ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew and ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ Panned by the critics but loved by the public. He then quit banking, traveled the world, served as a volunteer in WWI, barely escaped Poland at the beginning of WWII, moved to Hollywood and appeared in John Wayne’s movie ‘The Spoilers’ then returned to France where he died at the age of 84. A full life.

Service’s two-room cabin in the Yukon, which he lived in from November 1909 until June 1912 while writing his 2 novels about the Gold Rush is maintained as a historic site by Parks Canada.
We walked up the hill to the Cabin at 12:45, sat down in the intimate gallery and listened to an immensely entertaining biography interspersed with poetry reading from ‘My name is Sue, How do you do? Now you can remember my name’ Taylor. In costume from the Dawson City Gold Rush era, she then began with the poem I’ve printed above, ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee. How many of you have read Robert Service, she asked? The Canadians in the audience raised their hands. We Americans didn’t. And, she proceeded to give us a short history of his life along with some of his poems. She even took requests. Funny, her mother was there visiting.

Here she is reciting a poem by Service in front of his cabin.

But this is a better picture of her. See loved her topic.

We must have heard 8 poems, mostly his funny poems. She didn’t recite any of the poems from his stint as an ambulance driver in WWI because she’s ‘over 50 and would cry.’ (She mentioned the horrors of the barbed wire and, when we got home I bought a book of his poems and read the poem about the barbed wire and I couldn’t have recited it in public either.)

We toured his cabin and actually got to see some of his possessions. But, of all of them, I was most intrigued by this typewriter. Have you ever seen anything like this?

He actually wrote some of his favorite lines on the walls of his cabin which he had papered and Parks Canada has actually cut out one piece and framed it for all of us to see.

They take their history seriously in Dawson City - but, of course, tourist business is their basic industry. We thought that the museums and the guides were absolutely spectacular. We sure learned a lot.