It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed,
my poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road.
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes,
I slept on the ground in the light of your moon.
California, Arizona, I make all your crops,
then it’s North up to Oregon to gather your hops,
Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground,
from that Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down.
we'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win,
It's always we rambled, that river and I,
all along your green valley, I will work till I die.
'cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.