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