The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore, twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighted empty
That good ship and crew were a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
Later that night, when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
Was the witch of November come stealing
The dawn came late, breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came, it was all freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck saying
"Fellas, it's too rough to feed you"
At 7 p.m. a main hatchway caved in
He said, "Fellas, it's been good to know you"
The captain wired in, he had water coming in
The good ship and crew were in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say, they'd had made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might've split up, or they might've capsized
They may have broke deep into water
And all that remains are the faces and names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays of the sportsmen
And farther below, Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go, as the mariners all know
When the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit where they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy