Prickly thorn, but 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

Well the hills are pretty and rollin’
but the thorn is sharp and swollen
and the man plays a beutiful 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

The silver birches pierce through the 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 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