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 counting-house

Counting out his money;

The queen was in the parlor

Eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes,

When along came blackbird

And pecked off her nose.