Sixpence

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 parlour,
   Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,
   Hanging out the clothes;
Down came a blackbird,
   And pecked off her nose.