It's a mighty hard row my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet have travelled this hot dusty road
Out of your dustbowl and westward we roam
Through deserts so hot and through mountains so cold

I've wandered all over your green growing land
Wherever your crops are, I'll lend you my hand
On the edge of your cities, you'll see me and then
I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind

California, Arizona, I've worked on your crops
And northward up to Oregon to gather your hops
I've dug beets from the ground, I've cut grapes from the vine
To set at your table that white sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from the dry desert ground
From the grand Coolie Dam where the waters run down
In every state of this union we migrants have been
We work on the land and we'll fight until we win

It's always we ramble, that river and I
All along your green valleys I'll work till I die
Travel this road until death sets me free
Because pastures of plenty must always be free

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