It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet has traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
Your deserts was hot and your mountains was cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground by the light of your moon
At the edge of your cities you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind

California, Arizona, I made all your crops
Well its North up to Oregon to harvest your hops
vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine

It's green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down
Every state in this Union us migrants has been
And we'll work in this fight and we'll fight untill we 
win

And it's always we rambled, this river and I
All along your green valleys, I will work till I die
And this land I'll defend with my life if need be
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free