| When apples still grow in November
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| When Blossoms still bloom from each tree
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| When leaves are still green in December
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| It’s then that our land will be free
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| I wander her hills and her valleys
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| And still through my sorrow I see
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| A land that has never known freedom
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| And only her rivers run free
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| I drink to the death of her manhood
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| Those men who’d rather have died
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| Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
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| To bring back their rights were denied
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| Oh where are you now when we need you
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| What burns where the flame used to be
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| Are ye gone like the snows of last winter
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| And will only our rivers run free?
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| How sweet is life but we’re crying
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| How mellow the wine but it’s dry
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| How fragrant the rose but it’s dying
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| How gentle the breeze but it sighs
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| What good is in youth when it’s aging
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| What joy is in eyes that can’t see
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| When there’s sorrow in sunshine and flowers
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| And still only our rivers run free |