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The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down |
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Of the big lake they called Gitchee 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, 26,000 tons more |
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Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty, |
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That good ship and crew 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 a captain well seasoned. |
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Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms, |
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When it 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 feeling? |
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The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound, |
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As a wave broke over the railing, |
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And every man knew as the captain did too, |
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Was the Witch of November come stealing. |
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The dawn came late; the breakfast had to wait, |
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When the gales of November came slashing. |
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When afternoon came it was freezing 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, |
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Saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to feed you." |
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At seven pm, a main hatchway caved in, |
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Said, "Fellas, it's been good to know you." |
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The captain wired in he had water coming in. |
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The good ship and crew was in peril, |
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And later that night when its lights went out of sight |
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Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. |
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Does anyone 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 them. |
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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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All that remains is the faces and the names |
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Of the wives, the sons, the daughters. |
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Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings |
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In the rooms of her ice water mansions. |
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Old Michigan steams like a young person'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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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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At the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral. |
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The church bell chimed till 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 called Gitchee Gumee. |
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Lake Superior, it is said, never gives up her dead, |
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When the gales of November come early. |
