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The Spell of the Yukon
and Other Verses

by

Robert W. Service

---

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;

The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;

Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,

And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,

There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,

Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;

But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;

And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;

With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,

As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,

And I turned my head -- and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,

Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.

The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,

So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;

Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands -- my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,

And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;

With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,

A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;

While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? --

Then you've a haunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,

But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;

For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;

But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love --

A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true --

(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, -- the lady that's known as Lou).

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;

But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;

That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;

That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.

'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through --

"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away. . .then it burst like a pent-up flood;

And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay", and my eyes were blind with blood.

The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,

And the lust awoke to kill, to kill. . . then the music stopped with a crash,

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;

Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,

And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;

But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,

That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,

And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.

Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,

While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.

They say the stranger was crazed with "hooch", and I'm not denying it's so.

I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two --

The woman that kissed him and -- pinched his poke -- was the lady that's known as Lou.

---

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.

---

My Madonna

I haled me a woman from the street,

Shameless, but, oh, so fair!

I bade her sit in the model's seat

And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean;

I painted a babe at her breast;

I painted her as she might have been

If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture and went away.

Then came, with a knowing nod,

A connoisseur, and I heard him say;

"'Tis Mary, the Mother of God."

So I painted a halo round her hair,

And I sold her and took my fee,

And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,

Where you and all may see.

---

Unforgotten

I know a garden where the lilies gleam,

And one who lingers in the sunshine there;

She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,

And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear,

And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,

Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary -- then

He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim,

Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;

Yet he is in the garden by her side

And she is in the garret there with him.

---

The Reckoning

It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;
To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass,
Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass.
It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill,
But it's quite another matter when you
                                        Pay the bill.

It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent;
To wear your glad rags always and to never save a cent;
To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip;
To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip;
To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still,
Till Nature calls a show-down, and you
                                        Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill -- get wise while yet you may,
For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way;
The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,
They're all put down; it's up to you to pay for every one.
So eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will,
But God help you when the time comes, and you
                                        Foot the bill.

---

Quatrains

One said:  Thy life is thine to make or mar,
To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star;
 It lies with thee -- the choice is thine, is thine,
To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

I answered Her:  The choice is mine -- ah, no!
We all were made or marred long, long ago.
 The parts are written; hear the super wail:
"Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"

Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance,
Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance.
 From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will
I heard a voice cry:  "Say, give us a chance."

Chance!  Oh, there is no chance!  The scene is set,
Up with the curtain!  Man, the marionette,
 Resumes his part.  The gods will work the wires.
They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!

It's all decreed -- the mighty earthquake crash,
The countless constellations' wheel and flash;
 The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide;
The composition of your dinner hash.

There's no haphazard in this world of ours.
Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers.
 They rule the world.  (A king was shot last night;
Last night I held the joker and both bowers.)

From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust.
We can't do what we would, but what we must.
 Heredity has got us in a cinch --
(Consoling thought when you've been on a "bust".)

Hark to the song where spheral voices blend:
"There's no beginning, never will be end."
 It makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes!
The tables spread; come, let us dine, my friend.

---

The Men That Don't Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
 A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
 And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
 And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
 And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
 They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
 And they want the strange and new.
They say:  "Could I find my proper groove,
 What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
 Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
 With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
 Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
 Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
 In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
 He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
 And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha!  He is one of the Legion Lost;
 He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
 He's a man who won't fit in.

---

Music in the Bush

O'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon,
 And in the west, all tremulous, a star;
And soothing sweet she hears the mellow tune
 Of cow-bells jangled in the fields afar.

Quite listless, for her daily stent is done,
 She stands, sad exile, at her rose-wreathed door,
And sends her love eternal with the sun
 That goes to gild the land she'll see no more.

The grave, gaunt pines imprison her sad gaze,
 All still the sky and darkling drearily;
She feels the chilly breath of dear, dead days
 Come sifting through the alders eerily.

Oh, how the roses riot in their bloom!
 The curtains stir as with an ancient pain;
Her old piano gleams from out the gloom
 And waits and waits her tender touch in vain.

But now her hands like moonlight brush the keys
 With velvet grace -- melodious delight;
And now a sad refrain from over seas
 Goes sobbing on the bosom of the night;

And now she sings.  (O! singer in the gloom,
 Voicing a sorrow we can ne'er express,
Here in the Farness where we few have room
 Unshamed to show our love and tenderness,

Our hearts will echo, till they beat no more,
 That song of sadness and of motherland;
And, stretched in deathless love to England's shore,
 Some day she'll hearken and she'll understand.)

A prima-donna in the shining past,
 But now a mother growing old and gray,
She thinks of how she held a people fast
 In thrall, and gleaned the triumphs of a day.

She sees a sea of faces like a dream;
 She sees herself a queen of song once more;
She sees lips part in rapture, eyes agleam;
 She sings as never once she sang before.

She sings a wild, sweet song that throbs with pain,
 The added pain of life that transcends art --
A song of home, a deep, celestial strain,
 The glorious swan-song of a dying heart.

A lame tramp comes along the railway track,
 A grizzled dog whose day is nearly done;
He passes, pauses, then comes slowly back
 And listens there -- an audience of one.

She sings -- her golden voice is passion-fraught,
 As when she charmed a thousand eager ears;
He listens trembling, and she knows it not,
 And down his hollow cheeks roll bitter tears.

She ceases and is still, as if to pray;
 There is no sound, the stars are all alight --
Only a wretch who stumbles on his way,
 Only a vagrant sobbing in the night.

---

The Rhyme of the Remittance Man

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
 And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
 And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
 On the water where the silver salmon play;
And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
 In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
 That I fancy I have gained another star;
Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
 Far away -- God knows they cannot be too far.
Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon -- how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
 I might have been as well-to-do as they
Had I clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
 Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,
 And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,
 And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,
 The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
 Of the lazy, lapping water -- it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
 And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
 I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
 With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
 Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
 Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
Say:  "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure,
 He is one of us no longer -- let him be."
I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
 The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
By the lonely seas I've sailed in -- yea, the final word is spoken,
 I am signed and sealed to nature.  Be it so.

---

The Low-Down White

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;
There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town,
With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.

And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three --
One for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me.
To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.

To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;
To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face,
Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.

Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak
In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek,
I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase and rise with a verse of Greek?

Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight;
Called to the bar -- my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight;
Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate.

But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare,
And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care --
Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair.

She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow,
Like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want and woe;
And yonder she comes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow.

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