The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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    A                        Em
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
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Of the big lake they called gitche gumee
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The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
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When the skies of November turn gloomy
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With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
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Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.
     A                        Em
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
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When the gales of November came early.

    A                          Em
The ship was the pride of the American side
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Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
       A                         Em
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
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With a crew and good captain well seasoned
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Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
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When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
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And later that night when the ships bell rang
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Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin?

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    A                        Em
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
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And a wave broke over the railing
    A                      Em
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
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Twas the witch of November come stealin.
    A                      Em
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
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When the gales of November came slashing.
     A                     Em
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
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In the face of a hurricane west wind.


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     A                        Em
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck saying
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Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya.
   A                 Em
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in, he said
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Fellas, it's been good to know ya
    A                       Em
The captain wired in he had water coming in
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And the good ship and crew was in peril.
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And later that night when his lights went outta sight
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Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

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     A                      Em
Does any one know where the love of God goes
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When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
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The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
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If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
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They might have split up or they might have capsized;
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May have broke deep and took water.
    A                       Em
And all that remains is the faces and the names
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Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

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A                     Em
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
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In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
    A                      Em
Old Michigan steams like a young mans dreams;
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The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
    A                    Em
And farther below lake Ontario
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Takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
        A                    Em
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
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With the gales of November remembered.

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     A                   Em
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
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In the maritime sailors cathedral.
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The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
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For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
    A                        Em
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
       G             D           A
Of the big lake they call gitche gumee.
A                          Em
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
         G          D           A
When the gales of November come early!

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