The White Stripes 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.
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 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 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.