Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn
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Singing
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well the hills are pretty and rollin'
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But the thorn is sharp and swollen
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And the man plays a beautiful whistle
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But he wears a prickly thistle
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Singing
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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The silver birches pierce through an icy fog
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Which covers the ground most daily
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And the angels which carry St. Andrew high
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Are singing a tune most gaily
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One sound can hold back a thousand hands
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When the pipe plays a tune forlorn
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And the thistle is a prickly flower
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Aye, But how it is sweetly worn
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Singing
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
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Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn
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| The White Stripes |
