The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald lyrics
by Gordon Lightfoot
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche GumeeThe lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomyWith a load of iron ore 26,000 tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed emptyThat good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the gales of November came earlyThe ship was the pride of the American side coming back from some mill in WisconsinAs the big freighters go it was bigger than most with a crew and the Captain well seasonedConcluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for ClevelandAnd 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, when the wave broke over the railingAnd every man knew, as the Captain did, too, t'was the witch of November come stealingThe dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the gales of November came slashingWhen afternoon came it was freezing rain in the face of a hurricane West WindWhen supper time came the old cook came on deck saying, fellas, it's too rough to feed yaAt 7PM a main hatchway caved in; he said, fellas, it's been good to know yaThe Captain wired in he had water coming in and the good ship and crew was in perilAnd later that night when his lights went out of sight came the wreck of the Edmund FitzgeraldDoes 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 herThey might have split up or they might have capsized; they may have broke deep and took waterAnd all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughtersLake Huron rolls; Superior sings in the rooms of her ice-water mansionOld Michigan steams like a young man's dreams - the islands and bays are for sportsmenAnd farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send herAnd the Iron Boats go, as the mariners all know, with the gales of November rememberedIn a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed in the Maritime Sailors' CathedralThe church bell chimed 'til it rang 29 times for each man on the Edmund FitzgeraldThe legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche GumeeSuperior, they said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early
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