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Prickly Thorn, but 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 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
Singing
Li de li de li oh 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
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 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