When apples still grow in November
and blossoms still grow from each tree,
when leaves are still green in December,
it's then that our land will be free.

I travelled her hills and her valleys,
and still through her sorrows I see
a land that has never known freedom
and only our rivers run free,
and only our rivers run free.

I drink to the death of her manhood,
those men, who'd rather had died.
Than to live in the cold chains of boundage
to bring back their lives were denied.

Oh, where are you now when we need you,
what burns were the flames used to be?
Are you gone like the snows of last winter,
and will only our rivers run free,
and will only our rivers run free?

How sweet is life but we're crying,
how mellow the wine but is dry,
how fragrant the rose but is dying,
how gentle the breeze but is sigh.

What good is it new when it's ageing,
what joy in the eyes that can't see?
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flower
and still only our rivers run free,
and still only our rivers run free.

I travelled her hills and her valleys
and still trough her sorrows I see
a land that has never known freedom
and only our rivers run free,
and only our rivers run free.