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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 that hot dusty road |
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Out of the dust bowl and westward we rolled |
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Your desert was hot and your mountains were cold |
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I've worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes |
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I've slept on the ground in the light of your moon |
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On the edge of your city you've seen us and then |
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We come with the dust and we go with the wind |
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California, arizona, i make all your crops |
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Then north up to oregon to gather your hogs |
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Pull 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 coulee dam where the water runs down |
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Every state in this union us migrants have been |
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We'll work in your fight and we'll fight til we win |
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Well it's always we ramble that river and i |
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All along your green valley i'll work til i die |
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My land i'll defend with my life if need be |
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Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free |
