Pastures Of Plenty

It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed

My poor feet have traveled this hot dusty road

Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled

through deserts so hot and through mountains so cold

I've wandered all over your green growing land

Where ever your crops are I lent you my hand

On the edge of your cities, you see me and then

I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind

California, Arizona, I'd worked on your crops

the North up to Oregon to gather your hops

I got beets from your ground, I cut grapes from your vine

To sat at our table that white sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from the dry desert ground

From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down

Every state on this Union we migrants have been

We worked on the land and we'll fight untill we win

It's always we rambled, that river and I

All along your green valleys, I work till I die

Tramble this road untill death sets me free

pastures of plenty must always be free