Sunday, April 11, 2010

Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

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  1. SusanneApril 24, 2010 at 8:47 PM

    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 - 26,000 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
    Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
    As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
    With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.

    Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
    When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
    And later that night when the ships bell rang
    Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.

    The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
    And a wave broke over the railing
    And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
    T'was the witch of November come stealing.

    The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
    When the gales of November came slashing
    When afternoon came it was freezing rain
    In the face of a hurricane West Wind

    When supper time came the old cook came on deck
    Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
    At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
    He said fellas it's been good to know ya.

    The Captain wired in he had water coming 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 the minutes to hours
    The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
    If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.

    They might have split up or they might have capsized
    They may have broke deep and took water
    And all that remains is the faces and the names
    Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

    Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
    In the ruins of her ice water mansion
    Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
    The islands and bays are for sportsmen.

    And farther 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 musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
    In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
    The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
    For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

    The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
    Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
    Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
    When the gales of November come early.

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