Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a [bad word] love of mine.

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 of sparrow on snow-crested brown,)
Without no seam nor needle work,
(Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain,)
Then she'll be a [bad word] love of mine.
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call.)

Tell her to find me an acre of land,
(On the side of a hill a sprinkling of leaves,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
(Washes the grave with silvery tears,)
Between the salt water and the sea strand,
(soldier cleans and polishes a gun.)
Then she'll be a [bad word] love of mine.

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather,
(War bellows lazing in scarlet batallions,)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
(Generals orders their soldiers to kill,)
And to gather it all in a bunch of heather,
(And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten.)
Then she'll be a [bad word] 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 [bad word] love of mine.