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;
Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before a king?
The king was in his countinghouse Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes,
Along came a blackbird,
And snipped off her nose.