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
 
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