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 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