The White Stripes - Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn 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. 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.