Sing a song of sixpence,
a pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty black-birds baked in a pie;
When the pie was open the birds began to sing,
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 her parlour eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,
When up came a black-bird and pecked off her nose.
But a little Jenny Wren came and popped it on again.