The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
(Gordon Lightfoot: 1938-2023)

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of 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, 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 big freighters go, it was bigger than most,
with a crew and a good captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
Then 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
when the wave broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.

The dawn came late, and the breakfast had to wait
when the gales of November came slashin'.
When the afternoon came, it was freezing rain
in the hurricane west wind.

When suppertimme came, the old cook came on deck
saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."
At seven PM, it grew dark, it was then
he said, "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."
The capain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And 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 waves turn minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they put fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up, or they might have capsized,
they might have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and 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 further 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 rustic old hall in Detriot they prayed
in the Maritime Sailor's Catherdral.
The church bell chimed 'til 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 the call Gitche Gumee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
when the Gales of November come early....


The Edmund Fitzgerald Disaster:
November 10,
1975-2025