It's a mighty rough row that my poor hands have hoed,
My poor feet have travelled a hot dusty road,
Out of your dust bowl, and westward we roll,

And your desert was hot and your mountains was cold.

Well, I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes,

Slept on the ground by the light of the moon,
On the edge of the city you seen us, and then-
We come with the dust and we're gone with the wind.


California, Arizona, I make all your crops,
Then it's north up to Oregon to gather your hops,

Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vines,
Just to set on your table your bright, sparkling wine.


Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground,
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the water washes down,
Every state in the Union, us migrants have been,

We'll work in this fight and we'll fight -til we win.

Well, it's always we rambled, this river and I,

All along the green valley I will work until I die,
My land, with my life, I'll defend if need be,
For my pastures of plenty must always be free,

My land, with my life, I'll defend if need be,
For my pastures of plenty must always be free.