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
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good 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 ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

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 bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one 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 'er.
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 rooms 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 twenty-nine 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 said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

Lo, as the sun from his ocean bed rising
Wide o'er the water his glitt'ring beam throws,
Hark! from the masthead a voice cheer'ly crying,
"Hard on our lee-beam, a whale there she blows!"

Call up your sleepers then, larboard and starboard men,
Main yard a-back and your boats lower away,
Broad on our lee-beam, see the white water gleam,
Wreathing its foam in a garland of spray!

Lo, the leviathan in vastness is lying,
Making the ocean his voluptuous bed;
While o'er and around him the sea birds are flying,
Dark, foaming billows dash over his head.

Now each man watch with care, there goes his flukes in air;
Slowly but stately he sinks in the main.
Now peak your oars a while, rest from your weary toil,
Waiting and watching his rising again.

Now row, hearties, row as you love your salvation;
Row, hearties, row, let your reeking sweat flow.
Give to your blood a free circulation,
Bend to your oars, lads, give way all you know.

Now see each boat advance, eager to gain first chance,
Fleeting like shadows o’er the blue main.
"Stand up an' give him some, send both your irons home;
Cheerily stern all, trim the boat, give him the line."

Gallied and sore, fins and flukes in commotion,
Blackskin and boats are cleaving the spray,
While long, loud, and shrill winds his pipe o'er the ocean,
Frightened, bewildered, he brings to in dismay.

Now haul line, every man, gather in all you can,
As lances and spades from your thwarts clear away.
Now take your oars again, each and every man
As safely and surely we hold him in play.

The power of man o'er the king of the ocean
Is shown by the end when we gain our desire;
For a lance in his life creates a commotion.
Slowly he sinks with his chimney on fire.

Hear now the glad shout, from each and every seaman out,
Matching the billow's most turbulent roar.
From his spouthole on high, see the red signal fly.
Slowly he dies and the battle is o'er.

They say life has its ups and downs
That really now is quite profound
I'd like to push the capstan round
But it's pump me boys before we drown.

Pump me boys, pump 'er dry
Down to hell and up to the sky
Bend your back and break your bones
We're just a thousand miles from home.

The ocean we all do adore
So come on lads let's pump some more
Don't worry if you're stiff and sore
I'm sure we've pumped this bit before.

The captain's daughter, I suppose
Could be called an English Rose
What would you think when I propose
The pox she gave to me a dose.

This Rose well she did prick me sore,
I've never felt so bad before
Thanks to the girl I do adore
I thought I'd never pump no more.

I called the doctor right away
To find out what he had to say
"That's two pounds ten - get on your way"
I'm sure the girl is in his pay.

Sometimes when I am in me bed
And thinking of me day ahead
I wish that I could wake up dead
But pumping's all I get instead.

Yes, how I wish that I could die
The swine who built this tub to find
I'd drag him back from where he fries
To pump until the beggar's dry.

If Noah used him for his ark
Oh wouldn't that have been a lark?
From rising sun 'til getting dark
The animals all hard at work (singin')

There's so much water down below
Just how it got there I don't know
The old man says, "Let's roll and go"
But I think we're bound for Davy Jones.