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06. 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


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.


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


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.


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


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