By the Men who Moil for Gold
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold…
Today is the birthday of Robert Service, the first of two Scottish poets whose birthdays I’ll celebrate this month. Well, I didn’t really celebrate Service’s birthday, but I called my mother to tell her. My Uncle Paul gave my mother and grandfather books on Service this year for Christmas in honor of their spontaneous recitation of “The Cremation of Sam McGee” last Thanksgiving. To be honest, Service was really Canadian, though Scottish-born. The second poet’s birthday, Robert Burns, will truly be celebrated, at another of my parents’ Burns Night Suppers next weekend.
I like the idea of family’s gathering round and reading and reciting poetry together. I suppose, besides the odd bit of Mother Goose with young children, this does not really happen any more. Video killed the radio star, and perhaps poetry star as well. Which is sad, really, because poetry can teach us about our language as well as our humanity, and give us hints to proper posture and confidence when speaking aloud to an audience.
Though I don’t think we’ve lost these recitations entirely. People read aloud to their children, and we listen to music and sing together as well.
Here’s a link I’ve found of Johnny Cash reading “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.
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Whenever the moon and the stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
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70 or so rambunctious boys sat and stared with rapt attention as Mr. Hugh spun the tale of the fellow sitting in the furnace. (One of those boys, by the way, was Future Congressman Bob Ney (R - Leavenworth)
Thanks for the memories, Claire!
Thanks for the memories
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These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that 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 known as Lou.
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Smithsonian Folkways F-9754