Whe apples still grow in November, when blossom remains on each
tree,
When leaves are still green in December - it's then that our land
will be free.
I wander her hills and her valleys and still to my sorrow I see,
A land that has never known freedom, where Only Her Rivers Run
Free.
I drink to the death of her manhood, to those men who would rather
have died,
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage, to bring back the
rights we're denied.
Oh! where are you now when 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 yet we're
dry,
How fragrant the rose but it's dying, how gentle the wind yet
it sighs.
What good is in youth when you're ageing, what joy is in eyes
that can see
That there is sorrow in sunshine and flowers
If only our Rivers run free.
Agus As Gailge le do Thoil.
Níl ach ár Abhaineacha Saor
Má bhíonn úllaí ag apú faoi Shamhain
Is bláthaíonní geal ar gach craobh
Is duilleogaí glas ann faoi Nollaig
Is ansin a bheig Saoirse sa tír
Ag siúl dom trí shléibhte is gleannta
Trí mo shúile croíbhriste-se, chím
Náisiún faoi sheilbh ‘s faoi dhaoirse
Ach níl ach ár abhaineacha saor.
Seo sláinte na bhfear úd a d’éirigh
In aghaidh éileamh éagórach an dlí,
A fuair bás cuartú cúiteamh a gcearta
Is le daorsmacht an drochrud a chloí.
Anois, nuair tá gá libh, cá bhfuil sibh?
Cá bhfuil an tine tréan fíor?
Bhfuil sé caillte mar sneachta an gheimhridh?
Is nach bhfuil ach ár abhaineacha saor?
Nach suáilceach an saol is muid ag caoineadh
Is muid tur, cé gur flúirseach an fíon.
Nach cumhra an rós is í ag feochadh?
Is tá binneas sa ghaoth leis an tsíon.
Cén mhaith ‘tá san óige ‘s í ag aoiseach?
Cén t-aoibhneas ‘tá i súile dall caoch?
Níl aon lúchair i loinnir na gréine
Nuair nach bhfuil ach ár abhaineacha soar