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Lyrics

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 prickly thistle.

Lyrics continue below...

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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 blows 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, 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.

Writer(s): JOHN ANTHONY WHITE

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