{"id":211,"date":"2007-07-18T08:36:03","date_gmt":"2007-07-18T12:36:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/daveandyvonne.com\/davintosh\/?p=211"},"modified":"2007-07-18T08:36:03","modified_gmt":"2007-07-18T12:36:03","slug":"strange-things-done-in-the-midnight-sun","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/2007\/07\/18\/strange-things-done-in-the-midnight-sun\/fun\/","title":{"rendered":"“Strange Things Done In The Midnight Sun…”"},"content":{"rendered":"

Last Sunday morning we had a guest speaker at Central<\/a>; Bob Thune, senior pastor of Southwest Community Church<\/a>. Pastor James is out of town, and Bob happens to be the brother of Senator John Thune, who happens to attend Central. <\/p>\n

Bob’s sermon was very good and all (listen here<\/a>), but the thing that got me rolling this morning was a poem he shot from the hip while doing a sound check. <\/p>\n

There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold.
\nThe arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold.
\nThe northern lights have seen queer sights
\nBut the queerest they ever did see,
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
\nWhen I cremated Sam McGee.\n<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Of course I didn’t remember all of that, only the last line. But I had never heard the poem before, and I wanted to find out more about it; being the geek that I am, to Google I went. Holy cow; how have I not heard that poem before! The poem “The Cremation of Sam McGee”<\/em><\/a> was written by Robert Service<\/a> and published in 1907. And the story surrounding the writing of the poem is at least as interesting as the poem itself.<\/p>\n

While the character and the events in the poem are purely fictional, it was based in part on some factual events. According to the Wikipedia article<\/a> about the poem, while visiting the Yukon Territory, Service heard a story from a doctor there about how the doctor had once cremated the remains of an unnamed prospector after finding him dead & frozen while making a house call. Later, Service happened across the name of Sam McGee while working at a bank in Whitehorse, Alberta. Service contacted McGee to ask permission to use his name in the poem, which resulted in making “Service famous and McGee the subject of ridicule.” The Wikipedia information is backed up in part by an article on UpHere.ca<\/a><\/p>\n

One of the first links Google returned was an NPR page about the poem; they even had the audio of Johnny Cash reciting it. Give that a listen here<\/a> or click through to read the poem in its entirety.<\/p>\n

Oh; it’s also interesting to read some of Bob Thune’s writings. Found some of them on Musings Link<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The Cremation of Sam McGee<\/strong>
\nby Robert W. Service<\/em><\/p>\n

There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold.
\nThe arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold.
\nThe northern lights have seen queer sights
\nBut the queerest they ever did see,
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
\nWhen I cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Now Sam McGee was from Tenessee
\nWhere the cotton blooms and blows.
\nWhy he left his home in the south to roam
\n’round the poles, God only knows.
\nHe was always cold, but the land of gold
\nSeemed to hold him like a spell,
\nThough he’d often say in his homely way
\nThat he’d sooner live in Hell.<\/p>\n

On a Christmas day we were mushing our way
\nOver the Dawson trail.
\nTalk of your cold, through the parka’s fold
\nIt stabbed like a driven nail.
\nIf our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze
\n’til sometimes we couldn’t see.
\nIt wasn’t much fun, but the only one
\nTo whimper was Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

And that very night while we lay packed tight
\nIn our robes beneath the snow,
\nAnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o’er head
\nWere dancing heel and toe,
\nHe turns to me, and “Cap” says he
\n“I’ll cash in this trip, I guess.
\nAnd if I do, I’m asking that you
\nWon’t refuse my last request.”<\/p>\n

Well, he looked so low that I couldn’t say no,
\nThen he says with a sort of a moan,
\n“It’s the cursed cold, it’s got right hold
\n’til I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
\nYet tain’t being dead, it’s my awful dread
\nOf an icy grave that pains.
\nSo I want you to swear that foul or fair,
\nYou’ll cremate my last remains.”<\/p>\n

Well, a friend’s last need is a thing to heed,
\nSo I swore I would not fail.
\nWe started on at the streak of dawn,
\nBut, God, he looked ghastly pale!
\nHe crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
\nOf his home in Tenessee,
\nAnd before nightfall, a corpse was all
\nThat was left of Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death,
\nAnd I hurried on, horror stricken.
\nWith a corpse half hid, that I couldn’t get rid,
\nBecause of a promise I’d given.
\nIt was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say,
\n“You may tax your brawn and your brains,
\nBut you promised true, and it’s up to you
\nTo cremate these last remains.”
\n \t Now, a promise made is a debt unpaid,
\nAnd the trail has its own stern code.
\nIn the days to come, ‘though my lips were dumb,
\nIn my heart, how I cursed the load.
\nIn the long, long night by the lone firelight
\nWhile the huskies ’round in a ring
\nHowled out their woes to the homeless snows
\nOh, God, how I loathed the thing.<\/p>\n

And every day that quiet clay
\nSeemed to heavy and heavier grow.
\nBut on I went, though the dogs were spent
\nAnd the grub was getting low.
\nThe trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
\nBut I swore I would not give in.
\nAnd I’d often sing to the hateful thing
\nAnd it harkened with a grin!<\/p>\n

Then I came to the marge of Lake LeBarge
\nAnd a derelict there lay.
\nIt was choked with ice, but I say in a thrice
\nIt was named the “Alice May”.
\nI looked at it, and I thought a bit,
\nThen I turned to my frozen chum,
\nAnd “This” said I with a sudden cry
\n“Is my crematorium!”<\/p>\n

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
\nAnd lit the boiler fire.
\nSome coal I found that was lying around
\nAnd heaped the fuel higher.
\nThe furnace roared and the flames they soared,
\nSuch a blaze you seldom see.
\nThen I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal
\nAnd I stuffed in Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like
\nto hear him sizzle so.
\nAnd the heavens scowled and the huskies howled
\nand the wind began to blow.
\nIt was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
\ndown my cheeks, I don’t know why.
\nAnd the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
\nwent streaking down the sky.<\/p>\n

I do not know how long in the snow
\nI wrestled with grisly fear.
\nBut the stars were out and they danced about
\n‘ere again I ventured near.
\nI was sick with dread, but I bravely said
\n“I’ll just take a peek inside.
\nHe’s probably cooked, it’s time I looked.”
\nThen the door I opened wide.<\/p>\n

And there sat Sam, looking cold and calm
\nIn the heart of the furnace roar.
\nHe wore a smile you could see a mile,
\nAnd he said “Please shut that door!
\nIt’s warm in here, but I greatly fear
\nYou’ll let in the cold and storm.
\nSince I left Plumtree, down in Tenessee,
\nIt’s the first time I’ve been warm.”<\/p>\n

There are strange things done ‘neath the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold.
\nThe arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold.
\nThe northern lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Last Sunday morning we had a guest speaker at Central; Bob Thune, senior pastor of Southwest Community Church. Pastor James is out of town, and Bob happens to be the brother of Senator John Thune, who happens to attend Central. Bob’s sermon was very good and all (listen here), but the thing that got me […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-211","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fun"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=211"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=211"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=211"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/davintosh.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=211"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}