Now, I'll get back to that song
that my poor hands has hoed
My poor feet have traveled
and your mountains was cold.
I've worked in your orchards
neath the light of the moon.
On the edge of your city,
and we're gone with the wind
Then it's on up to Oregon,
dig the beets from your ground,
cut the grapes from your vine,
to put on your table that
from the Grand Coulee Dam
where the water's run down.
Every state in this union,
and we'll work in this fight,
and we'll fight till we win.
It's always we've rambled,
All along your green valley,
My land I'll defend with my life,
if it be for my pastures of
plenty must always be free