My father had me memorize this poem for a school project when I was 10 years old. I've remembered most of it since then, though a few words have morphed with time. I've never liked one verse near the end and changed it to something that works better for me. The version below is as I remember Robert Service's fantastic poem about the plight of Sam McGee in the Arctic cold.
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
when 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
he'd sooner live in hell.
On Christmas day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson Trail.
Speak of your cold through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close our lashes froze
'till sometimes we couldn't see.
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.
That very night as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow;
And the dogs were fed and the stars o'er head
were dancing to and fro.
He turned to me and "cap" says he,
"I'll cash in the 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 sort of a moan,
"It's this cursed cold and its caught right hold
'till I chilled right to the bone;
Yet 'tain't being dead it's the 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 friend's last need is a thing to heed
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the crack of dawn
but God he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh and raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
But by nightfall a corpse was all
that remained of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death
as 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 brain;
But you promised true, now its up to you
to cremate my 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 loathed that load.
In the long long nights, by the lone fire light
as the huskies round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows;
oh God how I loathed that thing.
And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavier heavier grow;
And on we went though the dogs were spent
and the grub was running low.
The trail was bad and I felt half mad
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to that hateful thing
and it'd harken with a grin.
'Till we 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 named the 'Alice May'.
I looked at it, and thought a bit,
and 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 lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around
and heaped the fuel higher.
The flames just soared and the furnace roared,
such a blaze you'd seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal
and stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I took a hike for I didn't like
to hear him sizzle so.
And the heavens scoulded and the huskies howled
and the winds began to blow.
It was icy cold but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
when streaking through the sky.
I waited around 'till the sun went down,
as I toiled with ire fear;
'till the stars came out and danced about
ere again I ventured near.
I was sick with dread, but bravely said,
"I'll just take a peep inside.
He's probably cooked and it's time I looked",
so the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm
in the heart of the furnace roar.
He wore a smile you could see a mile
and he said "Please close the door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm;
Since I left Plumbtree, 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 Lebarge
when I cremated Sam McGee.