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