December 25, 2008
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My Favorite Christmas Poem
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 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 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.The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Serviceillustrated version
from 2 years agoThis ends the countdown to Christmas for 2008. In case you missed some of it, here’s the list:
1. Why postpone the joy?
2. Two Patriotic (Xmas) Poems – Giving the Authors their Due
3. White Christmas by Robert W. Service (not my #1 favorite Xmas poem by him, but pretty good anyway, in its own sentimental way)
4. All about Christmas trees
5. Holidays are Hazardous (political correctness and other evils)
6. svwX – turning the 12 days of Christmas upside-down and backwards
7. Born in a Manger (origin and history of the crèche or Nativity scene)
8. Holiday Treats for Gifts or for Eating – six recipes: 3 sugary & 3 gluten-free lo-cal
9. Io Saturnalia! – ancient history
10. It really is a WONDERFUL LIFE. – Featured Grownups essay on how I made my little world a better place.
11. Xmas in War and Something Else – war and peace with a seasonal twist, in poetry, pictures, cartoons, etc.
12. Winter Solstice – Sacred Survival (archaeoastronomy and diverse traditions)
13. How did reindeer get involved, anyway?
14. Mistletoe, Holly, Ivy, Poinsettias and Yule Logs
15. Draggin’ the Tree (cowboy Christmas poetry)
16. The Trapper’s Christmas Eve and The Christmas Tree by Robert W. Service
17. The Ancestry and Evolution of Santa Claus
18. A bonus from yesteryear: The Elves and Gnomes of Christmas
…also, unnumbered, unheralded, unworthy of attention by anyone except one with a seriously sick sense of humor, this.…and, here are your presents from me (each is a link to a laugh).
My work is done. I’m outta here.
Comments (9)
My son, Michael studied this poem in school a couple years ago and can still quote parts of it.
Thank you for the cuppa cheer. May your holiday be bright.
Hi, thanks for the comment! And when I come here I find my favorite poem, after Stopping by the Woods…. I just got through reading Sam McGee to my family by the fireside in daughters house last night. I bet it’s even closer to “home” for you. Blessings on you this season!
Thank you! It’s been a very long time since I read Sam McGee (some number of decades I suspect).
Merry Christmas, Susu. Thank you for this poem. It was a favorite of a friend of mine that passed away just a few days ago. I was missing her to day and your posting of this poem was like her blowing me a playful kiss.
You are a Joy bringer.
Old Hat
as an expariated Tennessean, I like that poem much..thanks…I read you mushed around…that too is a very interesting thing to do because you have a closer relationship to the earth world with the relationship of caring for a team of dogs….I have some soldier friends down here at work that speak lovingly of their experience in Alaska. Many of these are Haitian Americans who were once Marines. They tell me that in the park of Alaska they were staying, there was plenty of salmon available and I was told of how one fella said he hand caught them along an open rushing watershed basin, wading in less than knee deep water with a good rubber boot on, with just gloves and his eye, as they would shoot out of the pool of water and run up the basin to go to higher waters, they were easy pickins..of course, if you get tired of salmon, well their abundance would not matter…
Thanks for the evocative poem and the absorbing Xmas entries. Merry Christmas!
@My_HAT_is_older_than_you - Oh, thanks for that feedback, Hat. I love the thought that I’ve brought a bit of joy and solace.
@Jack_Schidt - I don’t know where you read that I have a dog team. I have one dog, and live in an area where I can hear several yards full of dogs yipping and howling at feeding time. I am a fan of long-distance sled dog racing, am acquainted with a few mushers, but could not handle the physical task of caring for a dog yard, nor the extreme athletic feat of a thousand-mile race. For me, it’s a case of hero worship.
The only salmon I have ever caught myself was with my bare hands. The “sporting” way of fishing for them is very hard because during the runs at spawning time, they are not interested in eating and won’t usually strike at bait or lures. Most are caught by snagging with big treble hooks, when game wardens are not looking.
Here is a link to a story about my first summer in Alaska, when I got sick of eating salmon. That was a long time ago, the salmon then was half rotten, and I got my taste for the fish back long ago. Yum.
@SuSu - I linked that story to my post today…what a sense of community and being a steward of your neighbor’s peace that is! You keep a good record of work I see. In Maine, we would eat lots of smoked smelt, pickerel and pike fish cakes made from pressure cooking out the bone problems and we would take our share of lake trout, cutthroats and taking our share of salmon was a bittersweet thing as we all had to cut back as there was and still is a big conservancy to save the Atlantic Salmon run in Maine…however, there were lots of codfish and all the children hated mackerel for anything other than good fertilizer for rhubard patches or cukes..
Another wonderful poem. A pleasure to read. Best wishes for 2009.