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 shall be free,
I've wandered her hills and her valleys,
And still through my sorrow I'll see,
A land that has never known freedom,
And still only our rivers run free.

I'll drink to the death of her manhood,
To those men who would rather have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage,
All to bring back their rights were denied,
Oh, 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 still 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 we're ageing?
What joy is in eyes that can't see?
When there's sorrow and theirs sunshine and flowers,
And still only our rivers run free,
And still only our rivers run free.