“November Gale (The Edmund Fitzgerald)”

Americana Folk Ballad, heartfelt, somber, with honor

Verse 1 (updated)
The Captain knew a storm was brewing on the northern trail,
Not the hard-set temper hidden in its gale.
The sky turned iron-gray; the whispers rose to moan,
A chill ran down from pilothouse into bone.
He watched the glass fall fast, the daylight turning pale—
Not knowing how that temper meant to take her whole.
Through snow-blind static came a warning, thin and frail,
For the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Chorus (after Verse 1 — unchanged)
Oh, ring the bell, and toll it slow,
For the men who sleep where the cold waves blow.
The lake was black, the storm ran wild,
The wind cried out like a mourning child.
When the night closed in with a blinding veil,
That’s the hour the great ship sailed to silence.

Verse 2
Captain McSorley called ahead,
To the Anderson’s deck through static dread.
“The seas are rough, but we’ll pull through,”
The last calm words the good crew knew.
Then snow came thick, the compass spun,
The wires hissed low—and then were done.
No eyes to see, no light to hail,
As the Edmund Fitzgerald fought the gale.

Chorus (after Verse 2 — NEW)
Now ring the bell, let sorrow roll,
For twenty-nine and one steel soul.
The seas ran steep, the timbers cried,
And November pulled them from our side.
No harbor fire, no shoreline star—
That’s the hour the great ship fell to silence.

Bridge
Some say she broke, some say she rolled,
But only the lake knows what it holds.
No flare, no cry, no saving sound—
Just iron sinking, dark and drowned.
And far above, in November rain,
The Anderson called her name in vain;
No answer rose against that gale—
Only the long, unending wail.

Final Chorus
Oh, ring the bell, and toll it slow,
For the men who sleep where the cold waves blow.
No shore in sight, no guiding star—
Only the roar of the miles afar.
And the wind still tells that ghostly tale—
Of the Edmund Fitzgerald in the November gale.

Outro
So raise a glass when the tempests roar,
To the sailors gone from Superior’s shore.
For even steel can bend and fail—
In the hungry arms of a November gale.

2469/7500

Prologue (Calm Before the Storm) The sky was mixed—soft sun through bands of cloud, Light winds that barely brushed the shrouds. The crew shared jokes while coffee poured, As steel met water, steady, sure. No omen showed on that tempered tide, Just catspaw ripples, slow and wide— The lake lay calm, no hint of wail, As the ship began to set her sail. For gentle days can still turn frail, As they did for the Edmund Fitzgerald. Verse 1 (updated) The Captain knew a storm was brewing on the northern trail, Not the hard-set temper hidden in its gale. The sky turned iron-gray; the whispers rose to moan, A chill ran down from pilothouse into bone. He watched the glass fall fast, the daylight turning pale— Not knowing how that temper meant to take her whole. Through snow-blind static came a warning, thin and frail, For the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Chorus (after Verse 1 — unchanged) Oh, ring the bell, and toll it slow, For the men who sleep where the cold waves blow. The lake was black, the storm ran wild, The wind cried out like a mourning child. When the night closed in with a blinding veil, That’s the hour the great ship sailed to silence. Verse 2 Captain McSorley called ahead, To the Anderson’s deck through static dread. “The seas are rough, but we’ll pull through,” The last calm words the good crew knew. Then snow came thick, the compass spun, The wires hissed low—and then were done. No eyes to see, no light to hail, As the Edmund Fitzgerald fought the gale. Chorus (after Verse 2 — NEW) Now ring the bell, let sorrow roll, For twenty-nine and one steel soul. The seas ran steep, the timbers cried, And November pulled them from our side. No harbor fire, no shoreline star— That’s the hour the great ship fell to silence. Bridge Some say she broke, some say she rolled, But only the lake knows what it holds. No flare, no cry, no saving sound— Just iron sinking, dark and drowned. And far above, in November rain, The Anderson called her name in vain; No answer rose against that gale— Only the long, unending wail. Final Chorus Oh, ring the bell, and toll it slow, For the men who sleep where the cold waves blow. No shore in sight, no guiding star— Only the roar of the miles afar. And the wind still tells that ghostly tale— Of the Edmund Fitzgerald in the November gale. Outro So raise a glass when the tempests roar, To the sailors gone from Superior’s shore. For even steel can bend and fail— In the hungry arms of a November gale.

0/500