Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn

Singing, li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-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 beautiful whistle
But he wears a prickly thistle

Singing, li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh
Li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-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

Singing, li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh
Li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh

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
Li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh
Li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh
Li-de-li-de-li-oh-oh
Well, a-li-de-li-de-li-oh