The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

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 Wisconson
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 words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd 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.
--Gordon Lightfoot

This song, suggested by my brother Steve in his comments to Hiawatha, is very much in the tradition of the old ballads of the sea, often composed by sailors to commemorate great battles or shipwrecks. There's a very simple tune, and the rhythm and rhyme schemes don't have to be followed very closely. The import thing in this kind of poem/song is that it's easy to sing and remember.

This song commemorates an actual tragedy that happened on Nov 10, 1975. There was a bad storm, and the overloaded ship began taking on water through hatches that wouldn't quite seal (they were scheduled for repair at the end of that month when shipping stopped for the winter). The ship lost both its radars, began to list (lean over to one side because of uneven weight in the hold), and eventually just couldn't recover when hit by a couple of especially big waves. There's an excellent explanation of the conditions and radio communications throughout the night at this site.

Peter's sister Helena kindly found the lyrics to the filk song The Ballad of Apollo XIII for us, but since this post is long enough already, I'll put them in as a comment.