Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn

Singin� li de li de li, oh, oh
Well, the hills are pretty and rollin'
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh

Li de li de li, oh, oh, oh

Li de li de li, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Li de li de li, oh, oh
One sound can hold back a thousand hands
But he wears a prickly thistle

Are singing a tune most gaily
Singin� li de li de li, oh, oh
Aye, but how it is sweetly worn
Singin� li de li de li, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh

And the angels which carry St. Andrew high
Li de li de li, oh, oh
And the man plays a beautiful whistle
But the thorn is sharp and swollen
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Li de li de li, oh, oh, oh
Which covers the ground most daily

And the thistle is a prickly flower
Li de li de li, oh, oh
The silver birches pierce through an icy fog

When the pipe blows a tune forlorn