cremation mcpants 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 'taint 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 numb, 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. - Robert W. Service 011123 ... kipper the mcpants there are strange things made in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales which would make your blood run the cold; The Scandinavian lights saw strange sights, but the queerest that they never saw was this night on the margin of the lake Lebarge I incinerated SAM McGee. Maintaining SAM McGee was Tennessee, where cotton flowers and blows. Why it left its house in the south to wander ' around the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the ground of gold seemed to hold it as a charm; Although he often says his simple manner that "he would live earlier in the hell." One Christmas Day us mushing our manner above the trail Dawson. Maintenance of your cold! by the fold of the parka it stabbed like a led nail. If our eyes that we would close ourselves, then the wicks frozen until sometimes with we could not see; It was not much of recreation, but the only one with pleurnicher was SAM McGee. And this very night, because we extend strongly packed in our evening gowns under snow, and the dogs were nourished, and the o' erhead of stars danced the heel and the toe, it turned to me, and "hat," says it, "I will box inside this voyage, I guess; And if I, I ask that you will not refuse my last request." Well, it seemed so low that I could not say not; then he says with a kind of gémissement: "it makes the cold maudit, and it has the good catch until I would be alarming clean beam with the bone. However ' traces having died -- it is my terrible fear of the tomb icy which makes suffer; Thus I want that you swear that, stinking or honestly, you will incinerate my last remainders." The need for the end of stake is a thing to be observed, thus I swore that I would not fail; And we started above with the scratch of the paddle; but God! he seemed horrible fade. He is tapi on the sleigh, and he was delirious all the day of his house in Tennessee; And before fallen the night a corpse was all that was on the left of SAM McGee. There was not a breath of the fact the ground of death, and me we are dispatched, horror-conduit, with a hidden half of corpse which I could not obtain disencumbered, because of a given promise; It was whipped with the sleigh, and it seemed to indicate: "you can impose your pie of pig and brains, but you promised true, and it belongs you to incinerate these last remainders." Maintaining a promise made is an unpaid debt, and the trail has its own severe code. In days to come, although my lips were engourdies, in my heart how I have maudit this load. In the long, long night, by only the firelight, while huskies, rounds in a ring, howled out of their troubles to snow without hearth -- God of O! how I hated the thing. And each day that clay silencer seemed with heavy and with heavier develop; And above I went, although the dogs were spent and the worm became low; The trail was bad, and I felt half the insane one, but I swore that I would not give inside; And I would often sing with the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grimace. Until I would have come to the margin from the lake Lebarge, and to a wreck there extend; It was blocked in the ice, but I saw in a trice that this was called the "Alice May." And I looked at it, and I thought a little, and me looked at my chum frozen; Then "here," I said, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-my-solid mass of rock-eum." Some boards which I tore of the floor of fuselage, and I lit the fire of boiler; A certain coal that I found who was around, and I heaped higher fuel; The flames just went up, and the howled furnace -- such a flame that you seldom see; And I dug a hole in rougeoyant coal, and I stuffed in SAM McGee. Then I made a rise, because I did not like to hear it thus grésiller; And the skies scowled, and the strapping men howled, and the wind started to blow. The weather was cold icy, but hot sweat rolled in bottom of my cheeks, and I do not know why; And lubricating smoke in a black coat of ink went to striate in bottom with the sky. I do not know how long in snow I fought with appalling fear; But the stars left and they danced approximately before still I dared near; I was sick with fear, but I bravely said: "I will piaulement take just one inside. I guess that it is made cook, and it is time when I looked at;" ... then the door that I opened with far. And SAM put back there, seeming fresh and calm, in the heart of the howl of furnace; And it carried a smile which you could see one thousand, and it said: "close this door please. It be very well inside here, but I fear considerably that you leave in the cold and the storm -- since I have leave Plumtree, to the bottom in Tennessee, it be the first time that I have be hot." There are strange things made in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales which would make your blood run the cold; The Scandinavian lights saw strange sights, but the queerest that they never saw was this night on the margin of the lake Lebarge I incinerated SAM McGee. 040416 ... egger very neat poem. :) I'm with Sam, if i don't get cremated, i'm coming back to haunt someone's azz. 040416 ... sylverquiklight i plan to go up in a blaze of glory... or out... one of the two. either way i'm burning. 050606 what's it to you? who go blather from