Up from El Centro and San Bernadino
Bakersfield, Fresno, Meder, Merced
Salinas and Stockton, up to Sacramento
Santa Rosa and Red Bluff and on back again

One hundred thousand men, women, and children
Flow on the highways, the old and the young
In an unending cycle of sowing and reaping
The long valley's labor can never be done

And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand

Up in the morning an hour before dawning
Stretching and yawning, rubbing sleep from their eyes
With the last stars still quivering and the morning breeze shivering
The sun is just lightening the easternmost skies

Soon in the big open trucks they will travel
Crowded together and cramming like cattle
Over pavement, over gravel, over dirt roll the wheels
Out to the orchards, the vineyards, the fields

And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand

Soon in the long rows the swift hands are toiling
The day's growing heat and the dusty rows boiling
The sun presses down like a hot heavy hand
At the backs of the laborers that are working the land

In the shade of the oak trees by the side of the field rows
Dirty and shoeless the young children play
While fathers and mothers, older sisters and brothers
Toil on their knees in the heat of the day

And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand

Down from the highway come men in brown uniforms
Questioning, checking and searching and soon
One or two whose papers are not in order
Will be gone from the crew in the hot afternoon

When the sun is descended and the long day is ended
It's back to the trucks wiping sweat from their eyes
Tired and weary and covered all over
With fruit juice and brown dust and sweat and black flies

And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand

When there's crops in the field rows and grapes in the vineyards
When the limbs in the orchards bow low to the ground
There's food on the table and clothes for the children
There's singing and dancing and joy all around

But with skies grey as iron and icy winds whistling
And frost in the field and no work to be found
In the cold nights they huddle, with hunger they struggle
'Til spring brings back sweetness and life to the ground

And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand
And see how the land yields up her treasures
To a man's patient hand