Lyrics Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn - The White Stripes

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.