Luyện nghe bài hát The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on the Chippewa on down
Of the big they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never up her dead
When the skies of turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed
[Former version:] That good ship and true was a to be chewed
version:] That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of came early

The ship was the of the American side
Coming from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger most
With a crew and captain well seasoned
Concluding terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for
later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been

The wind in the wires a tattle-tale sound
When the broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the did too
'Twas the of November come stealin'
The came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November slashin'
afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a west wind

suppertime came, the old cook came on deck
Saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to ya."
[Former version:] At seven PM a main hatchway in
[Latter version:] At PM it grew dark, it was then
He said, "Fellas, been good to know ya."
The captain wired in he had water in
And the ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of
the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does anyone know where the love of God
When the waves turn the minutes to
The searchers all say have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles her
They might have split up or they might capsized
They may have broke deep and took
And all that remains is the faces and the
Of the wives and the sons and the

Lake rolls, Superior sings
In the of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young dreams
The islands and are for sportsmen
And farther below, Lake
Takes in what Lake Erie can her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all
With the gales of November

[Former version:] In a musty old in Detroit they prayed
[Latter version:] In a rustic old hall in Detroit they
In the Sailors' Cathedral
The church chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Fitzgerald
The legend on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, gives up her dead
When the gales of come early