Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well 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 Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well Li De Li De Li Oh 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

Singing
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well Li De Li De Li Oh Oh