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 p____ly 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 plays a tune forlorn
And the thistle is a p____ly 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

See also:
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