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