 There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold. The arctic trails have their secret tails that would make your blood run cold. The northern lights have seen queer sights. The queerest they ever did see was that night on the march of Lake LeBarge that cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the south the room around the pole God only knows. He was always cold the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell. We'd often say in his holy way he'd sooner live in hell. On a Christmas day we were mushing our way over the Dawson Trail. Talk of your cold to the parkers fold its stab 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. Only when a whimper was Sam McGee. On that very night we lay packed tight, not robes beneath the snow, and the dogs were fed and the stars overhead were dancing heel and toe. He turned to me and kept 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 loved that I couldn't say no. Then he says with a sort of a moan. It's the cursed cold. It's got right hold to him. I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet taint to be in dead. It's my awful dread of the acid grave that pains. So I want you to swear that foul or fair. You'll cremate my last remains. A pal's last deed 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 a 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 last to the sleigh and it seemed to say you might tax your brawn and brains. But your promise 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 curse 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 loathe the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow. And all night went, 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 often sing to the hateful thing. And it harkened with a grin, till I came to the Marge of Lake La Barge 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 of it, and I looked at my frozen chum. Then here said I with a sudden cry is my crema 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. And I made a hike. I didn't like to hear him sizzle so and the heaven scowled and the huskies howled. And the wind began to blow. It was icy cold. The hot sweat rolled down my cheeks and I don't know why. And the greasy smoke and an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grizzly fear. The stars came out and they danced about her 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. 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 I've been warm. There are strange things done on a midnight sun by the men who moil for gold. The Arctic trails are the secret tales that would make your blood run cold. The northern lights have seen queer sights. The queerest I ever did see was at night on the march of Lake LeBard, a cremated Sam McGee. End of poem. This recording is placed in a public domain. 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 march of Lake LeBard, a 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 around 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 soon live in hell. On Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson Trail. Talk of your cold through the park'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 perched tight in our robes beneath the snow and the dogs were fed and the stars or head were dancing heel to 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 don't refuse my last request. Well he seems 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 the bone. Yet taint being dead it's my awful dread of that icy grave that pains so I want you to swear that fair or foul you'll cremate my last remains. A pal's last need is a thing to heed so I swore I would not fail. 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 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 your promise true and it's up to you to cremate those last remains. Now a promise made is a debt unpaid in the trail as 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 load that thing. Every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow and on I went through that though the dogs were spent in the grub was getting low. The trail was bad and I felt half mad but I swore I would not give in and I often sing to that hateful thing and it harkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Labarge and a derelict there lay 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 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 and I made a hike if I don't like to hear him sizzle so and the heavens scowled and the huskies howled and the wind began to blow 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 there 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 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 this is the first time I've been warm there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men whom while 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 the night on the marge of Lake Labarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem this recording is in the public domain the cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service read for LibriVox.org by Katie Gibbany Arkansas November 2007 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 Labarge 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 around 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 park's fold it's stabbed like a driven nail if our eyes we'd closed 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 or head 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 pals 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 promise 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 loathe the thing and every day that quiet clay seemed too 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 harkened with a grin till I came to the Marge of Lake Labarge 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 of it and I looked at my frozen chum then here said I with a sudden cry is my crema torium some planks I tore from the cabin floor and I lit the boiler fire some coal I found that was lying around and I heat the fuel higher the flames just soared and the furnace roared such a blaze you seldom see and I borrowed 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 grizzly fear but the stars came out and they danced about air 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 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 sites but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the march of Lake Labarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem this recording is in the public domain the cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes 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 sites but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the march of Lake Labarge I cremated Sam McGee now Sam McGee was from Tennessee with a cotton blooms and blows why he left his home in the south to roam around 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 parkers fold it stabbed like a driven nail if our eyes we closed 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 laid packed tight in our robes beneath the snow and the dogs were fed and the stars or head 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 acid 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 promise 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 around in a ring held out their woes to the homeless snows oh god how I loathe 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 harkened with a grin till I came to the marge of Lake Labarge 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 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 in 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 grizzly fear but the stars came out and they danced about here 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 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 tails that would make your blood run cold the northern lights have seen queer sites but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the marge of Lake Labarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem this recording is in the public domain the cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold the arctic trails have their secret tails that would make your blood run cold the northern lights have seen queer sites but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the marge of Lake Labarge 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 around 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 or head 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 seems 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 the corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid because of a promise given it was last to the sleigh and it seemed to say you may tax your brawn and brains but you promise 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 and my heart how I cursed that load in the long long night by the lone firelight while the huskies round in a ring held out their woes to the homeless snows oh god how I loathe 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 harkened with a grin till I came to the marge of Lake Labarge 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 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 air 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 I've been warm there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moll for gold the arctic trails have their secret tails that would make your blood run cold the northern lights have seen queer sites but the queers they ever did see was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem this recording is in the public domain the cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service read for LibreBox.org by ML Cohen www.mojomoo411.com Cleveland Ohio November 2007 there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moll for gold the arctic trails have their secret tails that would make your blood run cold the northern lights have seen queer sites but the queers 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 the 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 park's fold it's stabbed like a driven nail if our eyes we'd closed and 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 roads beneath the snow and the dogs were fed and the stars our head were dancing heel and toe he turned to me and cap he said I'll cash you in this trip I guess and if I do I'm asking 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 moon 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 last 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 dead unpaid and the trail has its own stern code and 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 load that thing and every day that quiet clay seemed a heavier 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 harkened with the grin till I came to the march of Lake Labarge and a derelict there lay it was jammed in the ice but I saw in the 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 I said with a sudden cry is my crematorium 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 borrowed 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 and the inky cloak went streaking down the sky I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grizzly fear but the stars came out and they danced about air 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 feared you let into cold and storm since I left plum tree 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 moll 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 queers they ever did see was that night on the Marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem this recording is in the public domain the cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service read for LibriVox.org by RS Steinberg there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moll 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 park's fold it stabbed like a driven nail if our eyes we'd closed and 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 or head were dancing heel and toe he turned to me and Cap says he I'll cash in 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 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 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 loathe that thing and every day that quiet clave seemed too 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 harkened with a grin till I came to the marge of Lake Labarge and a derelict there lay it was jammed in the ice but I saw on 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 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 borrowed 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 heaven 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 my grisly fear but the stars came out and they danced about there 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 let in the cold and storm since I left plum tree 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 tails 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 Labarge I cremated Sam McGee end of poem