Gordon Lightfoot – The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald (Ukulele)

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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.

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That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed 

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When the "Gales of November" came early. 

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The ship was the pride of the American side 

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Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin

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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 ship's bell rang 

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Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

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The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound 

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And a wave broke over the railing

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And every man knew, as the captain did too, 

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T'was the witch of November come stealin'.

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The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait 

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When the Gales of November came slashin'.

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When afternoon came it was freezin' rain 

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In the face of a hurricane west wind.

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When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck 

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Sayin’. "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."

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At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in', 

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he said "Fellas, it's been good t'know ya"

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The captain wired in he had water comin' in 

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and the good ship and crew was in peril.

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And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight 

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Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

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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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They may have broke deep and took water.

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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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Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings 

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In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.

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Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams; 

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The islands and bays are for sportsmen.

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And farther below Lake Ontario 

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Takes in what Lake Erie can send her,

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And the iron boats go as the mariners all know 

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with the Gales of November remembered.

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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.

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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 

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Of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee".

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"Superior", they said, "never gives up her dead 

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When the 'Gales of November' come early!"