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
Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn Video (MV)
The White Stripes - Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn Lyrics
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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
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
Writer: Jack White
Copyright: Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
Copyright: Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group