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 big ship and crew 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 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 crossed 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 they 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 are 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 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
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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