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, 26 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 Comin' back from some mill in Wisconsin As big freighters go, it was bigger than most With a crew and good captain well seasoned Concludin' 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 stealin' The dawn came late, breakfast had to wait When the gales of November came slashin' When afternoon came, it was all freezin' rain In the face of a hurricane west wind When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin' "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 comin' 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