(Woody Guthrie)

It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed

My poor feet have traveled that hot dusty road

Out of the dust bowl and westward we rolled

Your desert was hot and your mountains were cold



I've worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes

I've slept on the ground in the light of your moon

On the edge of your city you've seen us and then

We come with the dust and we go with the wind



California, Arizona, I make all your crops

Then north up to Oregon to gather your hogs

Pull 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

Every state in this union us migrants have been

We'll work in your fight and we'll fight til we win



Well it's always we ramble that river and I

All along your green valley I'll work til I die

My land I'll defend with my life if need be

Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free