Solas - Pastures of plenty

It's a ^Ammighty hard row my poor ^Fhands have ^Amhoed My poor feet have travelled this ^Emhot dusty road ^AmOut of your dustbowl and westward we roam Through ^Fdeserts so hot and through ^Gmountains so ^Amcold ^{Em Am}

I've wandered all over your ^Fgreen, growing ^Amland Wherever your crops are, I'll ^Emlend you my hand On the ^Amedge of your cities, you'll see me and then I ^Fcome with the dust and I'm ^Ggone with the ^Amwind ^{Em Am}

California, Arizona, I've ^Fworked on your ^Amcrops And northward up to Oregon to ^Emgather your hops Dug ^Ambeets from the ground, I've cut grapes from the vine To ^Fset at your table that ^Gwhite sparkling ^Amwine

Green pastures of plenty from the ^Fdry desert ^Amground From the grand Coolie dam where the ^Emwaters run down In every ^Amstate of this union we migrants have been We ^Fwork on the land and we'll ^Gfight until we ^Amwin

It's always we ramble, that ^Friver and ^AmI All along your green valleys I'll ^Emwork 'til I die ^AmTravel this road until death sets me free 'Cause ^Fpastures of plenty must ^Galways be ^Amfree