And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed.

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found - Freedom to whorship God.

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,- Part of the brim was gone: Yet still I wore it on.

On Tuesday the freighter steamed through the Straits of Gibraltar and for five days plowed eastward through the Mediterranean, past islands and peninsulas rich…

The highway is alive tonight But nobody's kiddin' nobody about where it goes I'm sittin' down here in the campfire light With the ghost of old Tom Joad.

Now in Ireland, now in England, now in Normandy - he must fly rather than go by horse or ship.