Kiwi wiki | Songs / Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

By: Gordon Lightfoot^[1]

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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 No	vember turn	gloomy

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

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That	good ship and crew 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 of 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	feeling?

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The	wind in the wires made a	tattle-tale sound, and a	wave broke o	ver the	railing

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And	every man knew, as the	captain did too, t'was the	witch of	November come	stealing

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The	dawn came late and the	breakfast had to wait, when the	gales of	November came	slashing

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When	afternoon came it was	freezing rain, in the	face of a	hurricane	west wind

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When	suppertime came, the old	cook came on deck saying	"Fellas, it's	too rough to	feed ya"

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At	seven pm the main	hatchway caved in, he said	"Fellas, it's	been good to	know ya"

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The	captain wired in he had	water coming 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 Fitz	gerald

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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 her

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They	might have split up or	they might have capsized,	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

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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Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald