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 - 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 the 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 ships bell rang

Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound

And a wave broke over the railing

And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,

T'was 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 supper time came the old cook came on deck

Saying "Fellows, it's too rough to feed ya."

At 7PM a 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 his 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 ruins 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.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed

In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.

The church bell chimed, 'til 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 Gitche Gumee.

Superior, they said, never gives up her dead

When the gales of November come early.

© 1976 Moose Music, Inc.