Analysis of The Cremation Of Sam McGee
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 '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.
Scheme | ABCBDEFE gghh iiee jjxx kkll iiee aamll nnoo jjpp mmqq rree jjss ttuu vvww ABCBDEFE |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 111110011 1011111 010111101 1111111 01011111 10111011 111101111 1100101 110111011010101 11111001111011101 1111101111111101 11101011011110101 10101101101100101 111110111110101 110111101011011101 11011101011101101 011011111101010101 001010011010101 111101111101111 0111110111011101 1111111101111110111 10110111111111101 11101111011010111 11111111111101101 0111101111111111 01101101111111101 1110101111111001 001101111111101 110010111101101010 1011111101101101010 11110101111 1111101 11101011111101101 101011010100111111 001111110101111111 0011110111011001 1111101011111101 010011101111001001 0111101010011101 01110111111111110 0110110101011101 111101111001011 1110011110011110101 011110110101111101 111110101111111 11111010101101010 111111100101101010 0111001011011101 01101001010110101 1110111101111101 0010100110010111 111011011111101111 0010101101110101 1111110011101101 10111011011011101 11111111011110101 1111011111011101 01111010100110101 01101111010111111 1101111011100101 111110011011111 111110011 1011111 010111101 1111111 01011111 10111011 111101111 1100101 |
Closest metre | Iambic octameter |
Characters | 4,407 |
Words | 896 |
Sentences | 34 |
Stanzas | 15 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 8 |
Lines Amount | 69 |
Letters per line (avg) | 49 |
Words per line (avg) | 13 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 224 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 59 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 02, 2023
- 4:36 min read
- 805 Views
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"The Cremation Of Sam McGee" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/32525/the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee>.
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