THE CREMATION OF
All: There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights
Solo 1: Ah, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge
of
I cremated
Solo 2: Now
Where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round
the
pole, God only knows.
All: He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him
for a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way
Solo 4: “I’d sooner live in Hell!”
Solo 3: 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.
All: 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
Solo 1: 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, and
Solo 4: “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.”
Solo 1: Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t
say no; then he
says with a sort of moan:
Solo 4: “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.”
Solo 1: A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so
I swore
I would not fail;
All: 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
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was
left of
Solo 1: 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,
Solo 4: “You may tax your brawn and brains, but
you promised
true,
And it’s up to you to cremate my last remains.”
All: Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail
has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though his lips were dumb,
In his heart how he 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
Solo 1: ---O God!
How I loathed the thing.
All: And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and
heavier grow;
Solo 1: 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.
All: Till he came to the marge of
derelict there lay;
It was mammed in the
ice, but he saw in a trice it
was called the “
And he looked at it, and thought a bit and he
looked
at his frozen chum.
Solo 1: “Here,”
All: said he with a sudden cry,
Solo 1: “is my Cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Solo 5: Some planks he tore from the cabin floor,
and he lit
the boiler fire:
Some coal he found that was lying around, and he
heaped the fuel higher;
All: The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a
blaze you seldom see;
Solo 1: And I burrowed a hole in the glowing
coal,
And stuffed in
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him
sizzle so;
All: And the heavens scowled, and huskies howled, and the
wind began to blow.
Solo 1: It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my
cheeks, and I don’t know
why;
All: And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking
down the sky.
Solo 1: I do not know how long in the snow I
wrestled with
grisly fear.
All: But the stars came out and they danced about ‘ere again
he ventured near.
He was sick with dread, but he bravely said:
Solo 1: “I’ll just take a peep inside. I guess he’s cooked,
and it’s time I looked.”
All: ---Then the door he opened wide.
And there sat
of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he
said,
Solo 4: “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
time I’ve been warm.”
All: There are strange things done in the midnight sun
by the men who moil for
gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales that
would
make your blood run cold;
The northern lights have seen queer sights,
Solo 1: But the queerest they ever did see was
that night
on the marge of