singing
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
well the hills are pretty and rollin'
but the thorn is sharp and swollen
and the man plays a beautiful whistle
but he wears a prickly thistle
singing
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
the silver birches pierce through an icy fog
which covers the ground most daily
and the angels which carry st. andrew high
are singing a tune most gaily
one sound can hold back a thousand hands
when the pipe plays a tune forlorn
and the thistle is a prickly flower
aye, but how it is sweetly worn
singing
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
li de li de li oh oh
well a li de li de li oh oh
