Sam McGee, Robert Service, and a Summerland Story

I am often asked to share a song or a poem at variety nights or campfire gatherings. Typically I call up memories of British comedy classics from Flanders and Swan. Over the years I have offered my own version of Hoffnung’s The Bricklayer’s Lament. I really need to broaden my scope to include some Canadian content such as Robert Service’s most famous poems, The Shooting of Dan MdGrew and The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Last Monday I walked with Kathie on Conkle Mountain in Summerland — Images here. Moving at my preferred leisurely pace, lo and behold, I discovered a sign explaining that one “Sam McGee” actually lived here in our little town in a previous century. I had mistakenly thought that Robert Service had lived here, but no, not the poet, but his character, Willian S. McGee was a former resident. On an informational panel along the trail I read the following from local Summerland historian, David Gregory.

One of the most successful poems in English literature is Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” [Full text below] There really was a Sam McGee. He moved from the North to Summerland because his wife had two sisters living here. His home was on Lister Road and his young orchard was close to McGee Street by the golf course. His job was a road engineer and he did do road work for the District of Summerland. He went by the name “William S. McGee. He was not cremated, but buried.

For those unfamiliar with Robert Service the Canadian Encyclopedia provides the following information:

Robert William Service, poet, novelist (b at Preston, Eng 16 Jan 1874; d at Lancieux, France 11 Sept 1958). Educated in Scotland, Service worked in a bank after he left school. In 1894 he immigrated to Canada, where, after wandering from California to British Columbia, he joined the Canadian Bank of Commerce. He was stationed throughout British Columbia and eventually at Whitehorse and Dawson City. In 1907 he published his first collection of poems, Songs of a Sourdough; an immediate success, it was followed by Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) and Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912). Poems such as “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” assured Service of lasting fame and gave rise to his nicknames: “the Canadian Kipling” and “the Poet of the Yukon.”

An article on Wiki continues the tale:

[Service was] an English-born Canadian poet and writer, often called “The Bard of the Yukon” and “The Canadian Kipling” . . . When his bank sent him to the Yukon, he was inspired by tales of the Klondike Gold   Rush, and wrote two poems, “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” and “The Cremation of Sam McGee“, which showed remarkable authenticity from an author with no experience of the gold rush or mining, and enjoyed immediate popularity.

Rebuked by a Dawson City clergyman at the time for the vile and disgusting tone of his poems his readers however showed little concern. Although the poem was fiction, it was based on people and things that Robert Service actually saw in the Yukon. Lake Laberge is formed by a widening of the Yukon River just north of Whitehorse and is still in use by kayakers. The Alice May was based on the derelict stern-wheeler the Olive May that belonged to the Bennett Lake & Klondike Navigation Co. It was abandoned after it struck a rock near Tagish, which is about 50 kilometres south of Lake Laberge. Dr. Sugden used its firebox to cremate the body of Cornelius Curtin (who had died of pneumonia).

William Samuel McGee was primarily a road builder but did indulge in some prospecting. Like others, McGee was in San Francisco, California, at the time of the Klondike Gold Rush and in 1898 left for the Klondike. In 1904, Service, who was working in the Canadian Bank of Commerce (the predecessor of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce) branch in Whitehorse, saw McGee’s name on a form and used it in his poem as it was a rhyme for “Tennessee.”

Enough context now. Here is the text of one of Canada’s most famous poems, folklore for the ages, wherever we gather together.

The Cremation of Sam McGee
By Robert W. Service

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 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.

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