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