It's a mighty hard row that these poor hands have hoed
My poor feet've traveled a hot dusty road
From out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
And your deserts was hot and your mountain was cold
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
Slept on the ground in the light of your Moon
On the edge of your city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we're gone with the wind
California, Arizona, I made all your crops
And it's North up to Oregon to gather your a-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 water runs down
Each state of this Union us migrants has been
And we'll work, and we'll fight, and we'll fight till we win
Well, we always have rambled, that river and I
All along your green valleys, I'll work till I die
This land I'll defend with my life if needs be
'Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free
Behold
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