Performer: Alistair Hulett.
Lyrics: Woody Guthrie.
Tune: “Pretty Polly.”
It’s a mighty hard road that my poor hands have hoed.
My poor feet have traveled this hot, dusty road.
Out of your Dust Bowl and westward we rolled.
Your deserts were hot, and your mountains were cold.
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes.
I slept on the ground by the light of your moon.
On the edge of your city, you’ll see us and then—
We come with the dust, and we go with the wind.
California, Arizona, we harvest your crops.
Then, north up to Oregon to gather your hops.
Pull the beets from your ground. Cut your grapes from the vine:
To lay on your table your light, sparkling wine.
Green pastures of plenty from dry, desert ground:
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down.
Every state in the Union, us migrants have been.
We’ll stand in this fight, and we’ll fight til we win.
It’s always we rambled, that river and I.
Along your green valley, I’ll work ’til I die.
This land I’ll defend with my life if it be
’Cause these pastures of plenty must always be free.