The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

	  		

                
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down  of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee  
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The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.   
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With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more  than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,   
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That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the Gales of November came early.    
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The ship was the pride of the American side  coming back from some mill in Wisconsin  
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As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most with a crew and good captain well seasoned,   
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Concluding some terms with a couple a steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.   
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And later that night when the ship's bell rang         could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?   
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The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave broke over the railing.   
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And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too  'twas the witch of November come stealin'.   
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The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait  when the Gales of November came slashin'.   
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When afternoon came it was freezin' rain  in the face of a hurricane west wind.   

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When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin  Fellas  it's too rough t'  feed ya."   
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At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in he said Fellas, it's been good t'  know ya  
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The captain wired in he had water comin' in  and the good ship and crew was in peril.   
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And later that night when its lights went outta sight   came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.   

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Does any one know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?   
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The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay   if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.   
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They might have split up or they might have capsized    they may have broke deep and took water.   
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And all that remains is the faces and the names  of the wives and the sons and the daughters.   

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

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In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed    in the Maritime Sailors Cathedral   
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The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times  for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.   
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down   of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee   
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Superior  they said, never gives up her dead    when the gales of November come early 


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