Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
 Of the big lake they call '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 Wisconsin
 As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
 With a crew and good captain well seasoned
 Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
 When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
 Then 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
 When the wave broke over the railin'
 And every man knew, as the captain did too
 'Twas 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 freezing 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 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
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 Does anyone know where the love of God goes
 When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
 The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
 If 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
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 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
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 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