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The	legend lives on from the	Chippewa on down, of the	big lake they	called "Gitche	Gumee"

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The	lake, it is said, never	gives up her dead, when the	skies of No	vember turn	gloomy

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With a	load of iron ore twenty-six	thousand tons more, than the	Edmund Fitz	gerald weighed	empty

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That	good ship and crew was a	bone to be chewed, when the	gales of	November came	early

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The	ship was the pride of the	American side, coming	back from some	mill in	Wisconsin

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As the	big freighters go, it was	bigger than most, with a	crew and good	captain well	seasoned

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Concluding	some terms with a	couple of steel firms, when they	left fully	loaded for	Cleveland

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And	later that night when the	ship's bell rang, could it	be the north	wind they'd been	feeling?

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The	wind in the wires made a	tattle-tale sound, and a	wave broke o	ver the	railing

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And	every man knew, as the	captain did too, t'was the	witch of	November come	stealing

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The	dawn came late and the	breakfast had to wait, when the	gales of	November came	slashing

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When	afternoon came it was	freezing rain, in the	face of a	hurricane	west wind

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When	suppertime came, the old	cook came on deck saying	"Fellas, it's	too rough to	feed ya"

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At	seven pm the main	hatchway caved in, he said	"Fellas, it's	been good to	know ya"

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The	captain wired in he had	water coming in and the	good ship and	crew was in	peril

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And	later that night when its	lights went outta sight came the	wreck of the	Edmund Fitz	gerald

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Does	any one know where the	love of God goes, when the	waves turn the	minutes to	hours

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The	searchers all say they'd have	made Whitefish	Bay, if they'd	put fifteen more miles	behind her

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They	might have split up or they	might have capsized, may have	broke deep and	took on	water

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And	all that remains is the	faces and the names, of the	wives and the	sons and the	daughters

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Lake	Huron rolls, Su	perior sings, in the	rooms of her	ice-water	mansion

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Old	Michigan steams like a	young man's dreams, the	islands and	bays are for	sportsmen

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And	farther below Lake On	tario, takes	in what Lake	Erie can	send her

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And the iron	boats go as the	mariners all know, with the	gales of	November re	membered

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In a	musty old hall in De	troit they prayed, in the	Maritime	Sailors'	Cathedral

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The	church bell chimed till it rang	twenty-nine times, for each	man on the	Edmund	Fitzgerald

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The	legend lives on from the	Chippewa on down, of the	big lake they	call "Gitche	Gumee"

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Su	perior, they said, never	gives up her dead, when the	gales of	November come	early