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;
Now
wasn’t 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,
When
down came the blackbird,
And pecked off her nose. |