Ballad Of Ira Hayes

(Peter LaFarge)

Gather round me people and a story I will tell
‘Bout a brave young Indian lad, you should remember well
From a tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and peaceful band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley out in Arizona land

Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till the white man stole the water rights and the running water hushed
Ira's folks was hungry, their fields grew thick with weeds
But when war came Ira volunteered and forgot the white man's greed

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war

Well, they battled up Iwo Jima Hill, two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again
And after the fight was over and Old Glory proudly raised
Among the men who held her high was an Indian, Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war

Well, Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he's just a Pima Indian, no food, no friend, no chance
And nobody cared what Ira did and when do the Indians dance

Well, Ira took to drinking hard, jail often was his home
They used to let him raise the flag there and lower it just like you'd throw a dog a bone
And Ira died drunk early one morning all alone in the land he'd fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is till as dry
And his ghost, well, that's lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
Not that whiskey drinking Indian or Marine who went to war