A Beer for Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the Midnight Sun

By those who moil for amber gold;

The Arctic ales produce secret tales

That blossom when the tap runs cold;

The Northern Lights have seen bitter nights

But the bitterest I ever did see

Was the night on the marge I put on my charge

A beer for Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where bourbon is lined in rows.

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.”

It was Firkin Day, we were mushing our way, on a happy hour trail.

Talk of a thirst! Manhattans mentioned first, but I held out for an ale.

If whiskey we chose, our lashes would close, till sometimes we couldn’t see;

So we skipped the rye, but bye and bye, the one to whimper was Sam McGee.

That very night, the brewery was packed tight, with many beers to show,

I picked a brew, evoking Bear, legendarily running through the snow,

He turned to me, and “Cap” says he, “I’ve no cash this trip, I guess;

Cover for me, I’m asking that you won’t refuse this one request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; so I agreed to the evening’s loan;

‘Ale Slayers’ was tapped, producing a satisfied thirst-quenching moan.

He ain’t be dead but was filled with awful dread, of life past with beer so plain;

So I had to swear that, foul or fair, we’d sample till no beer remain.

A pal’s one need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

So I returned to the bar; but God! don’t get anything too pale.

Round two produced a ‘Sockeye Red’ so good he forgot Tennessee;

And before nightfall a convert that IPA had made of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath across the bar’s breadth, as I hurried, taste bud-driven,

With his spirit awakened I produced another round, fulfilling a promise given;

Though that red had spawned an appreciation taxing our brawn and brains,

He said “you promised true, and it’s up to you find out what else remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the bar has its own stern code.

In the minutes to come, though my lips were numb, a crest of euphoria I rode.

In the long, long night, his passions alight, Sam found a girl to give a ring.

So at the bar, now ordering for three, I found a brew that was just the thing.

With every drink our lashes would sink and feel heavy and heavier grow;

While a celebration of that ‘Panty Peeler’s’ citrus and spice did show;

The bill was bad, but I couldn’t be mad, cause I swore I would not give in;

And that Belgian Tripel was a guarantee we were leaving with a grin.

Then out on the marge after signing my charge, many a spirited derelict lay;

Sam looking grand, asked for the hand, of the lady Alice May.

She looked at it, and thought a bit, and I looked at my happy chum;

Then “Yes,” said she with a sudden cry, “we better call my mum.”

Some folks did swore, from the brewery door, honoring the impassioned fire;

And we all knew, in debt to the brew, that love could grow higher;

For within the vats that still remain are flavors you seldom see;

We would have to return, me and the future Mr. and Mrs. Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to see them snuggle so;

But 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.

Into a tavern I turned for another pint of Midnight Sun to loosen up my tie.

I do not know how long I wrestled with grisly ‘Kodiak Brown Ale’ fear;

But the flavors leapt out and they danced about, ere good times ventured near;

I ordered some bread, then bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep outside.

I guess he’s booked, but its better I looked,”…then the door opened wide.

And in came Sam, looking cool and calm, without the woman he called a bore;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “ I just need one more.

It’s fine in here and I greatly fear being out in that gathering storm –

A ‘Monk’s Mistress’, that special dark ale, is what I need to keep warm.

There are strange things done in the Midnight Sun

By those who moil for amber gold;

The Arctic ales produce secret tales

That blossom when the tap runs cold;

The Northern Lights have seen bitter nights

But the bitterest I ever did see

Was the night on the marge I put on my charge

A beer for Sam McGee

* this “poem” owes a sizeable debt to “The Cremation of Sam McGee”. Forgive me Robert W. Service

* link to the original poem

*link to Midnight Sun Brewery