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, 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
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, 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
Singin' 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
Singin' 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