The Ballad of Ira Hayes Songtext
von Hazel Dickens

Gather ′round me, people, a story I will tell
'Bout a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indians, a proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land
Down the ditches of a thousand years, the waters grew their crops
′Til the white man stole their water
Rights and the sparkling water stopped
Then Ira's folks grew hungry, their land grew crops of weeds
When the war came, he volunteered, forgot the white man's greed

Oh, call him drunken Ira Hayes
He can′t hear you anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine that went to war


They battled up Iwo Jima Hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down again
When the fight was all over, Old Glory was raised
Among the men who held it high was an Indian, Ira Hayes
Ira Hayes returned a hero, celebrated through the land
He was wined, speeched, and honored, everybody shook his hand
He was just a Pima Indian, no water crop, no chance
At home they forgot what he had done and went to the Indians′ dance

Oh, call him drunken Ira Hayes
He can't hear you anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine that went to war

Then Ira started drinking hard, jail often his home
They let him raise and lower the flag like you throw a dog a bone
He died drunk alone one morning in a land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave of Ira Hayes
Call him drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died

Oh, call him drunken Ira Hayes
He can′t hear you anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking Indian
Or the Marine that went to war

Oh, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died