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

I drink to the death of her manhood,
To those men who'd rather have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage,
To win back their rights they're denied,
But where are you now when we need you?
What burns were the flame used to be?
Are you gone like the snows of last winter?
And will only our rivers run free?

How sweet is life but we're crying,
How mellow the wine but it's 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 still only our rivers run free,
And still only our rivers run free.