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