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It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed |
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My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road |
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Out of your |
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Dust Bowl and |
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Westward we rolled |
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And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold |
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I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes |
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I slept on the ground in the light of the moon |
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On the edge of the city you'll see us and then |
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We come with the dust and we go with the wind |
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California, |
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Arizona, I harvest your crops |
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Well its North up to |
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Oregon to gather your hops |
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Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine |
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To set on your table your light sparkling wine |
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Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground |
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From the Grand |
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Coulee Dam where the waters run down |
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Every state in the |
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Union us migrants have been |
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We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win |
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It's always we rambled, that river and |
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IAll along your green valley, |
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I will work till |
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I dieMy land |
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I'll defend with my life if it be |
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Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free |
