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!"

( Nested Song - "The Water Is Wide" )

The water is wide, I cannot get oer Neither have I wings to fly Give me a boat that can carry two And both shall row, my love and I

A ship there is and she sails the sea She's loaded deep as deep can be But not so deep as the love I'm in I know not if I sink or swim

I leaned my back against an oak Thinking it was a trusty tree But first it bent and then it broke So did my love prove false to me

I reached my finger into some soft bush Thinking the fairest flower to find I pricked my finger to the bone And left the fairest flower behind

Oh love be handsome and love be kind Gay as a jewel when first it is new But love grows old and waxes cold And fades away like the morning dew

Must I go bound while you go free Must I love a man who doesn't love me Must I be born with so little art As to love a man who'll break my heart

When cockle shells turn silver bells Then will my love come back to me When roses bloom in winter's gloom Then will my love return to me