Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie:
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;
And wasn't this a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in the parlour, counting out his money;
The queen was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
There came a little blackbird and nipt off her nose.
Fly away home,
Your house is on fire,
Your children will burn.
One, Two--buckle my shoe;
Three, Four--open the door;
Five, Six--pick up sticks;
Seven, Eight--lay them straight;
Nine, Ten--a good fat hen.
Eleven, Twelve--I hope you're well;
Thirteen, Fourteen--draw the curtain;
Fifteen, Sixteen--the maid's in the kitchen;
Seventeen, Eighteen--she's in waiting.
Nineteen, Twenty--my stomach's empty.
Come out of your hole,
Or else I'll beat you black as a coal.
Put out your head,
Or else I'll beat you till you're dead.
The man in the moon came down too soon
To inquire the way to Norridge;
The man in the South, he burnt his mouth
With eating cold plum porridge.
When I was a little boy, I lived by myself,
And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf;
The rats and the mice, they made such a strife,
I was forced to go to London to buy me a wife.
The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow,
I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow;
The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,
And down came the wheelbarrow, wife and all.