Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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Intro:  
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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 true 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 tattle-tale sound  
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and a wave broke over the railing.  
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And ev'ry 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 sayin'.  
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"Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."  
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At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,  
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"Fellas, it's bin 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 'is 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 searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay  
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if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.  
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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 'til 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!"