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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down |
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Of the big lake they called 'Gitche 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 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 tattle-tale sound |
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When a wave broke over the railing |
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And every man knew, as the captain did too |
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T'was 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 supper time came, the old cook came on deck sayin' |
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Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya |
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At seven pm a main hatchway caved in, he said |
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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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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 'Gitche Gumee' |
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Superior, they said, never gives up her dead |
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When the gales of November come early |
