The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the

Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they called '

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 weighed empty

That good ship and true was 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

WisconsinAs the 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

ClevelandAnd 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 the tattle-tale sound

And the wave broke over the railing

And every man knew, as the captain did too

T'was the witch of

November come stealin'

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait

When the gales of

November came slashin'

When afternoon came, it was freezin' rain

In the face of a hurricane west wind

When supper time came, the old cook came on deck sayin'

Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya

At 7 P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said

Fellas, it's been good to know ya

The captain wired in he had water comin' in

And the good ship and crew was in peril

And later that night when his lights went out of sight

Came the wreck of the

Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of

God goesWhen the waves turn the minutes to hours?

The searchers all say they'd have made

Whitefish

BayIf they'd put fifteen more miles behind her

They might have split up or they might have capsized

They may have broke deep and took water

And all that remains is the faces and the 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 are for sportsmen

And farther below

Lake Ontario

Takes in what

Lake Erie can send her

And the iron boats go, as the mariners all know

With the gales of

November remembered

In a musty old hall in

Detroit they prayed

In the Maritime

Sailors' Cathedral

The church bell chimed 'til 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'

Superior, they said, never gives up her dead

When the gales of

November come early