Lyrics
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 rode
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold
Well I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the moon
On the edge of your city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind
California, Arizona, I harvest your crops
It's north up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
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 'til we win
It's always we grambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I'll work 'til I die
My land I'll defend with my life if it be
'Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free