Lirik Lagu The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald - Gordon Lightfoot
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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on downOf the big lake they called 'Gitche Gumee'The lake, it is said, never gives up her deadWhen the skies of November turn gloomyWith a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons moreThan the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewedWhen the gales of November came early.
The ship was the pride of the American sideComing back from some mill in WisconsinAs the big freighters go, it was bigger than mostWith a crew and good captain well seasonedConcluding some terms with a couple of steel firmsWhen they left fully loaded for ClevelandAnd later that night when the ship's bell rangCould it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale soundAnd a wave broke over the railingAnd every man knew, as the captain did too,T'was the witch of November come stealin'.The dawn came late and the breakfast had to waitWhen the Gales of November came slashin'.When afternoon came it was freezin' rainIn the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'.Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya.At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he saidFellas, it's been good t'know yaThe captain wired in he had water comin' inAnd the good ship and crew was in peril.And later that night when his lights went outta sightCame the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goesWhen the waves turn the minutes to hours?The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish BayIf they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.They might have split up or they might have capsized;May have broke deep and took water.And all that remains is the faces and the namesOf the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior singsIn 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 OntarioTakes in what Lake Erie can send her,And the iron boats go as the mariners all knowWith the Gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine timesFor each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.The legend lives on from the Chippewa on downOf the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'.Superior, they said, never gives up her deadWhen the gales of November come early!
The ship was the pride of the American sideComing back from some mill in WisconsinAs the big freighters go, it was bigger than mostWith a crew and good captain well seasonedConcluding some terms with a couple of steel firmsWhen they left fully loaded for ClevelandAnd later that night when the ship's bell rangCould it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale soundAnd a wave broke over the railingAnd every man knew, as the captain did too,T'was the witch of November come stealin'.The dawn came late and the breakfast had to waitWhen the Gales of November came slashin'.When afternoon came it was freezin' rainIn the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'.Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya.At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he saidFellas, it's been good t'know yaThe captain wired in he had water comin' inAnd the good ship and crew was in peril.And later that night when his lights went outta sightCame the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goesWhen the waves turn the minutes to hours?The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish BayIf they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.They might have split up or they might have capsized;May have broke deep and took water.And all that remains is the faces and the namesOf the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior singsIn 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 OntarioTakes in what Lake Erie can send her,And the iron boats go as the mariners all knowWith the Gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine timesFor each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.The legend lives on from the Chippewa on downOf the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'.Superior, they said, never gives up her deadWhen the gales of November come early!
