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;

There came a little blackbird

And snapped of her nose.

But there came a Jenny Wren

And popped it on again.