 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.
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