Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four-and-twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing.
Was not that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in his countinghouse,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes;
Along came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.