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 freeTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
