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It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands has hoed My poor feet has traveled a hot dusty road Out of your dustbowl and westward we rode And your deserts was hot and your mountains was 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 make all your crops Well it's up north 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 has been We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win. It's always we ramble that river and I All along your green valley I will work until I die. My land I'll defend with my life if need be 'Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free. Please fill in the fields below and click SUBMIT to send it to your friend.
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