Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn

Singin' li de li de li, oh, oh Well, a li de li de li, oh Li de li de li, oh, 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 Singin' li de li de li, oh, oh Well, a li de li de li, oh Li de li de li, oh, 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 Singin' 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 blows a tune forlorn And the thistle is a prickly flower Aye, but how it is sweetly worn Singin' 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