Sing a song-a-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 that not 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 the clothes;
Down came a blackbird,
And snapt off her nose.