The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 
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Of the big lake they called Gitchee Gumee
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The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
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When the skies of November turn gloomy
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With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more 
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Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
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That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed 
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When the gales of November came early 
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The ship was the pride of the American side 
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Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
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As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most 
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With a crew and good captain well seasoned
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Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms 
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When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
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And later that night when the ship's bell rang 
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Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
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The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound 
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And a wave broke over the railing
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And every man knew, as the captain did too, 
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Twas the witch of November come stealin'
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The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait 
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When the gales of November came slashin'
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When afternoon came it was freezin' rain 
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In the face of a hurricane west wind
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When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck 
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Sayin' Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya
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At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in 
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he said Fellas, it's been good t'know ya
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The captain wired in he had water comin' in 
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and the good ship and crew was in peril
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And later that night when his lights went outta sight 
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Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
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Does any one know where the love of God goes 
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When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
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The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay 
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If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
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They might have split up or they might have capsized 
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They may have broke deep and took water
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And all that remains is the faces and the names 
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Of the wives and the sons and the daughters
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Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings 
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In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
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Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams 
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The islands and bays are for sportsmen
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And farther below Lake Ontario 
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Takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
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And the iron boats go as the mariners all know 
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with the gales of November remembered
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In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, 
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In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
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The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times 
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For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 
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Of the big lake they call Gitchee Gumee
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Superior, they said, never gives up her dead 
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When the gales of November come early