Letras
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of a 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 twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November come early
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, she was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When she left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when her ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind that been failin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
Then a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
It was the witch of November come stealin'
Dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November come slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When the suppertime came the old cook came on deck
Saying, "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 comin' in
And the good ship and crew were in peril
And later that night when her lights went outta 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 her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
And they might have broke deep and took water
And all that remains are the faces and the names
Of their wives and their sons and their daughters
Lake Huron rolls and Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
And the islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
She takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners well know
In the gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit we prayed
At the maritime sailors' cathedral
The church bell chimed, it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
And the legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of a big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, it's said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy