The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitchee Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore, 26,000 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 a captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When it left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
As a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew as the captain did too
Was the Witch of November come stealing
The dawn came late; the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck
Saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to feed you."
At seven pm, a main hatchway caved in
Said, "Fellas, it's been good to know you."
The captain wired in he had water coming in
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 them
They might have split up, or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
All that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives, the sons, the daughters

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice water mansions
Old Michigan steams like a young person's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
The iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
At 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 called Gitchee Gumee
Lake Superior, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early