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 valleys and still through my sorrow I see,
a land that has never known freedom, only her rivers run free.
I drink to the death of her manhood,
those men who would rather have died
than to live in the cold chains of bondage
to bring back their rights were denied.
Where are you now, when we need you,
what burns where the flame used to be?
Are you gone like the snows of last winter, will only our rivers run free?
How sweet is life but we're crying, how mellow the wine that were dry,
how fragrant the rose but it's dying, how gentle the wind, but it sighs.
What good is youth when it's ageing, what joy is in eyes that can see?
when there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers,
and only our rivers run free.