Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn

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 branches pierce through an icy fog Which covers the ground most daily And the angels 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