Pastures of plenty

It¡¯s mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed,
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road,
Our of your dust bowl and westward we rolled
And your desert was hot and your mountains were cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes,
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 and Arizona, I make all your crops,
And it¡¯s north up to Oregon to gather your hops,
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes form your vines,
To set on your table your light sparkling wine.

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground,
From that ground coulee dam where the water runs down
Every state in this union us migrants have been,
We work in this fight, and we¡¯ll fight till we win.

Well, it¡¯s always we ramble, that river and I,
All along your green valley I¡¯ll work till I die
My land I¡¯ll defend with my life, if it be,
¡®cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.