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