When apples still grow in November,
When blossoms still bloom on 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,
Yet 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,
To those brave men who would rather have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage,
Ah, to bring back their rights that were denied,
Oh, but where are you now when we need you?
And what burns were the flame used to be?
Are you gone like the snows of last winter?
And will only our rivers run free?

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