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
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 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 blows 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