The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Gordon Lightfoot
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they call Gitchigumi
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore, 26,000 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
And later that night when the ship's bell rang, could it be the north wind they'd been feeling?
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound, and a wave tumbled over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did, too, 'twas the Witch of November come stealing
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait, when the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came, it was freezing rain, in the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck, saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven p.m., the main hatchway caved in, he said, "Fellas, it's been good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water coming in, and the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night, when its lights went out of sight, came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
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
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the rooms of her icewater mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, the isles 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
In a musty old hall in Detroit, they prayed at the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed till it rang 29 times, for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they call Gitchigumi
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early
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