(strum up on the first three chords)
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
to the big lake they call 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 -26,ooo 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 Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most.
With a crew and the 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 ships bell rang,
could it be the North wind they'd been feeling.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
Every man knew, as the captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November came stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the gales of November came slashing.
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
in the face if a hurricane west wind.
When supper time came the old cook came on deck,
Saying fellas it's to rough to feed ya.
At 7PM a 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 were in peril.
Later that night when his lights went out of sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes,
When the words turn minutes to hours.
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up and they might have capsized.
They may have broke deep and took water.
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 ruins 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, 'til it rang 29 times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
to the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
when the gales of november come early.