"Sing a song o' sixpence, a pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie:

When the pie was opened, they all began to sing,

And was n't this a dainty dish to set before the king?

The king was in his counting-house, counting out his

money;

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,

And along came a blackbird, and nipt off her nose!"

It doesn't take a conjurer to see

The sort of curious pasty this might be;

A flock of flying rumors, caught alive,

And housed, like swarming bees within a

hive,—

Instead of what were far more wisely

done,

Having their worthless necks wrung, every

one;—

And so a dish of dainty gossip making,

Smooth covered with a show of secrecy,

That one but takes the pleasant pains of

breaking,

And out the wide-mouthed knaves pop,

eagerly.

Blackbirds, indeed! Each chattering on-

dit

Comes forth, full feathered, black as black

can be;

With quivering throats, all tremulous to

sing,

And please, forsooth, some little social

king;

Whose reign may last as long as he is able

To call his court around a dinner-table.

But, mark the sequel! When the laugh is

over,

Think not to get the varlets under cover:

The crust once broken, you may seek in vain

To catch the birds, or coax them in again;

Mrs. Pandora's famous box, I wis,

Was nothing worse than such a pie as this:

And so, some pleasant morning,—when,

down town,

The king is busy with his bags of money,

Leaving at home the queenly Mrs. Brown

Safe at her breakfast of fair bread and

honey,—

Some quiet, harmless soul, who never

knows

Of any matters, save the plain pursuing

Her daily round,—the hanging out of

clothes

Or other lawful work she may be doing,—

Finds, by the sudden nipping of her nose,

What sort of mischief is about her brew-

ing!

Not that, indeed, there's anything to hinder

The thieves from flying though the parlor

window;

For never yet could sentinel or warden

Keep scandals wholly to the kitchen gar-

den.

When, therefore, as not seldom it may be,

Even in the soberest community,

Strange revelations somehow get about,—

Like a mysterious cholera breaking out

Sudden, as Egypt's blains 'neath Aaron's rod,

Contagious by a whisper or a nod,—

When daily papers teem with many a hint

That daubs them darker even than their

print;

When it would seem, in short, the very D——,

Had let his little imps out on a spree;

Conclude, beyond a reasonable doubt,

Although, perhaps, you fail to trace it out,

Such plagues spring not unbidden from the

ground,

And, if the thing were sifted, 't would be

found

Somebody 's sown a pocket full of rye,

Or been regaling on a blackbird pie!