Lyrics:

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 till I die

Travel this road until death sets me free

Because pastures of plenty must always be free