When apples still grow in November,
When blossoms still grow from each tree,
When leaves are still green in December,
It's then that our Land will be free.
I wander the hills and valleys
And still through my sorrows 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'd rather have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
To bring back their rights were denied.
Oh where are you now that we need you,
What burns where the flame used to be.
Are you gone like the snow of last winter,
And will only our rivers run free?
How sweet is life, but we're crying.
How mellow the wine, but we're dry.
How fragant 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.