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
