The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
by Gordon Lightfoot
 The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitchee Goomee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead,
When the skies of November turn gloomy.
 With a load of iron ore, 26000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true, 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 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 late 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 tattletale sound,
And a wave broke over the railing,
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
'Twas the Witch of November come stealin'.
 The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait,
When the gales of November case 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 p.m. the main hatchway caved in,
He said, "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."
 The captain wired in, he 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 'em.
They might have split up or they might have capsized, 
They may have baroke deep and took water.
And all that remains are the faces and names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice water mansions.
 Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The island 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
 In the Maritime Sailor's 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 the call Gitchee Goomee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead,
 When the gales of November come early.