Standard (EADGBE)

 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 Oh

Li De Li De Li Oh Oh

 Well A Li De Li De Li Oh 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

 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 Oh

Li De Li De Li Oh Oh

 Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh