Sing a song of sixpence,
A bag full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds;
Baked in a pie;
When the pie was open'd,
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;
By came a little bird,
  And snapt off her nose.