(Michael Mc Connell)
When apples still grow in November,
When blosoms still bloom on each tree,
When leaves are still green in December,
Its then that our land will be free.
I wander her hills and her valleys
And still through my sorrow I see,
A land that has never know freedom
And only her rivers run free.
I'll 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.
Were 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 only her rivers run free?
How sweet is life but we're crying,
How mellow the wine but we're dry ?
How fraquant 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 her rivers run free.