Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish, to put before the king?
The king was in the 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 down came a blackbird, and bit her on the nose.