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Tell her to make me a cambric shirt:
(On the side of a hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground)
Without no seams or needle work,
(Or blankets or bedclothes, the child of a mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
(Sleeps unaware of a clarion call)
Tell her to find me an acre of land:
(On the side of a hill or a sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(Washes the grave with silvery tears)
Between the salt water and the sea strand,
(A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather:
(War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather,
(And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Are you going to Scarborough Fair:
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
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