Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald                        Takes in what Lake Erie can send her, And the     
(Gordon Lightfoot)                                    iron boats go as the mariners all know With the   
                                                      gales of November remembered.                     
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down Of                                                        
the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee." The          In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, In    
lake, it is said, never gives up her dead When        the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral. The church bell  
the skies of November turn gloomy With a load of      chimed till it rang twenty-nine times For each    
iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more Than the       man on the Edmund Fitzgerald. The legend lives    
Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty. That good ship       on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake      
and crew was a bone to be chewed When the gales       they call "Gitche Gumee." Superior, they said,    
of November came early.                               never gives up her dead When the gales of         
                                                      November come 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 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 feelin'?                                                                     
                                                                                                        
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound                                                          
And a wave broke over the railing And every man                                                         
knew, as the captain did too, T'was the witch of                                                        
November come stealin'. The dawn came late and                                                          
the breakfast had to wait When the gales of                                                             
November came slashin'. When afternoon came it                                                          
was freezin' rain In the face of a hurricane                                                            
west wind.                                                                                              
                                                                                                        
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck                                                         
sayin'. "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya." At                                                         
seven PM a main hatchway caved in, he said                                                              
"Fellas, it's been good t'know ya" The captain                                                          
wired in he had water comin' in And the good                                                            
ship and crew was in peril. And later that night                                                        
when its lights went outta sight Came the wreck                                                         
of the Edmund Fitzgerald.                                                                               
                                                                                                        
Does any one 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; 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 rooms 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