Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket fall of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;
When the pie was open the birds began to sing,
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in his counting-house counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden hanging out her clothes,
When up came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.