Gather round you people and a story I will tell
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About a brave young Indian you should remember well
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From the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful band
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They farmed the Phoenix Valley in Arizona land
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Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
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Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
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Now Ira's folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
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But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white man's greed
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
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Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
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They started up Iwo Jima Hill, 250 men
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But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
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And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
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One of the men who held it high was the Indian Ira Hayes
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
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Now Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
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He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
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But he was just a Pima Indian, no money crops, no chance
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And at home nobody cared what Ira had done and the wind did the Indian's dance
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
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And Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
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They let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a bone
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He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
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Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for Ira Hayes
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
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Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
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Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, but his land is still as dry
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And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where Ira died
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Call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war
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Yes, call him, Drunken Ira Hayes, he won't answer anymore
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Not the whiskey-drinking Indian or the marine who went to war.
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-----------------
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
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| Bob Dylan |
