The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called �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 came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side
comin, back from some mill in Wisconsin.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
and a wave crashed over the railing.
And every man knew as the Captain did too
,twas the witch of November come stealin,.
Does any man know where the love of god goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
When suppertime came the old cook came on deck
sayin,, �Fellas it,s too rough t,feed ya.�
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in;
he said, �Fellas it,s been good t,know ya!�
The searchers all say they,d,a made Whitefish Bay
if they,d put fifteen more miles behind ,er.
And all that remains are the faces and names
of the sons and the wives and the daughters.