When apples still grow in November,
When blossoms still bloom from each tree,
When leaves are still green in December,
It's then that our land will be free,
I wander her hills and her valleys,
Still through my sorrow I see,
A land that has never known freedom,
And only her rivers run free.

I drink to the death of her manhood,
Those men who would rather have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage,
To bring back their rights were denied,
Oh, were are you now when we need you?
What burns were the flames used to be?
Oh, are you gone like the snows of last winter?
And still only our rivers run free.

How sweet is life but we're crying,
How mellow the wine but we're dry,
How fragrant the rose but it's dying,
How gentle the wind but it sighs,
What good is in youth when it's ageing?
What joy is in eyes that can't see?
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers,
And only our rivers run free,
And still only our rivers run free.