Well the D hills are pretty and rollin'
But the C thorn is sharp and swollen
And the D man plays a beautiful whistle
But he C wears a prickly thistle
Singing D Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well C A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
D Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well C A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
The D silver birches pierce through an icy fog
Which C covers the ground most daily
And the D angels which carry St. Andrew high
Are C singing a tune most gaily
One D sound can hold back a thousand hands
When C the pipe plays a tune forlorn
And t D he thistle is a prickly flower
Aye, C But how it is sweetly worn
Singing D Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well C A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
D Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well C A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
The White Stripes
