Pastures Of Plenty

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
And your desert was hot and your mountains was cold

I've worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
Slept on the ground in the light of your moon
On the edge of your city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we're gone with the wind

California, Arizona, I make all your crops
Well its North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine

Well it's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I'll work til I die
My land I'll defend with my life if need be
My pastures of plenty must always be free

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
And your desert was hot and your mountains was cold