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Pastures Of Plenty (Solas)

It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed My poor feet have traveled this hot dusty road Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled through deserts so hot and through mountains so cold I've wandered all over your green growing land Where ever your crops are I lent you my hand On the edge of your cities, you see me and then I come with the dust and I'm gone with the wind California, Arizona, I'd worked on your crops the North up to Oregon to gather your hops I got beets from your ground, I cut grapes from your vine To sat at our table that white sparkling wine Green pastures of plenty from the dry desert ground From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down Every state on this Union we migrants have been We worked on the land and we'll fight untill we win It's always we rambled, that river and I All along your green valleys, I work till I die Tramble this road untill death sets me free pastures of plenty must always be free