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; 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 a blackbird and pecked off her nose.
Well that serves that little maid right for baking the poor blackbirds in a pie in the first instance!
Trains of thought are so odd aren’t they? Little boxcars carrying our thoughts from one place to another, this nursery rhyme makes me think of a dog I once had, whose name was Sixpence. When my parents separated, my mother left Ireland and returned with their only daughter to her native country South Africa, leaving my three brothers and my first and most beloved dog, Patches behind.
Poor Sixpence! Adopted from the local SPCA by my Nana and my Uncle Tim in order to fill the Patches shaped hole in my heart and even though he was a perfectly lovely dog he was sadly not up to the task. A 12-year-old girl needs time to heal from the devastating loss of furry soul mate.
All my love