Field Workers Song

Oh the grapes on the vine,

They are heavy and they shine,

What a bounty of sweetness they yield!

But they never would appear

To bring their comfort here

If it weren't for the workers in the field.

Chorus:

The grower is a rich man,

His house is large and fine,

You think he makes his money

From the grapes on the vine.

But he coins it from the bodies

Of the workers every one

Who plant the crop and tend to it,

Hoe it and bend to it,

Under the burning sun.

You pass on the road

And wonder at the load

Of braceros who work for little pay,

But you never will know

The row after row,

And the ache and the heat and the spray.

(Chorus)

Your platters are filled

From the fields we have tilled,

And the fruit and the salads are fine,

But the lives of the workers

Are pressed into gold

Like the grapes are pressed into wine.

(Chorus)

Our harsh, scattered lives

Were hard to organize

As we followed the crops year by year,

But the growers have to yield

To the workers in the field

Since United Farm Workers is here.

Last Chorus:

The grower is a rich man,

He can buy and sell

The teamsters and the deputies,

The newspapers as well.

But he cannot buy our union

It's just no use to try.

We've fought this fight so long and hard

Victory is our reward

And "Viva la causa!" is our cry.

Viva la causa!