The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they called 'Gitche Gumee'

The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy

With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty

That good 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 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 P.M. 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 his 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 searches 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, 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 Sailors' Cathedral

The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times, for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'

Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early!

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