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 'til I die Travel this road until death sets me free 'Cause pastures of plenty must always be freeTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
