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 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 the city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind

California and Arizona, I make all your crops
And 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 this Union us migrants have been
We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win

Well, it's always we rambled, that river and I
All 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

Copyright: T.R.O. INC.
Writer(s): WOODY GUTHRIE