Singin li de li de li, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Li de li de li, oh, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, ohWell, 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 thistleSingin li de li de li, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, oh
Li de li de li, oh, oh, oh
Well, a li de li de li, ohThe 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 gailySingin 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, ohOne 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 wornSingin 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, ohLi 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