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

But I drink to the death of her manhood,
For those men they rathered have died,
Than to live of the cold chains of bondage,
And to bring back their rights were denied,
Oh, where are you now when I need you?
And what burns were the flames used to be?
Are you gone like the snows of last winter?
And still only our rivers run free?

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

When there's sorrow in sunshine and in flowers,
And still only our rivers run free.