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 it's 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 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