Raped on the Railway

The four and twentieth day of May,

Of all days in the year,

A virgin Lady fresh and gay,

Did privately appear;

Hard by a River side got she,

And did sing loud the rather,

'Cause she was sure, she was secure,

And had intent to bathe her.

With glittering, glancing, jealous Eyes,

She slyly looks about,

To see if any lurking spies

Were hid to find her out:

And being well resolved that none,

Could see her Nakedness,

She pulled her robes off one by one,

And did her self undress.

Her purple Mantle fring'd with Gold,

Her Ivory Hands unpin;

It would have made a

Coward bold,

Or tempted a Saint to sin.

She turn'd about and look'd around

Quoth she, I hope I'm safe,

Then her rosie Petticoat,

She presently put off.

The snow white Smock which she had on,

Transparently to deck her,

Look'd like Cambric or Lawn,

Upon an Alabaster Picture:

Thro' which Array I did faintly spy.

Her Belly and her Back,

Her Limbs were straight, and all was white,

But that which should be black.

Into a flowing Stream she leapt,

She looked like Venus' Glass.

The Fishes from all quarters crept,

To see what Angel 'twas.

She did so like a Vision look,

Or Fancy in a Dream.

'Twas thought the Sun the Skies forsook,

And dropt into the Stream,

Each Fish did wish himself a Man,

About her all was drawn,

And at the Sight of her began

To spread abroad their Spawn:

She turn'd to swim upon her Back,

And so displayed her Banner,

If Jove had then in Heaven been,

He would have dropt upon her.

A Lad that long her Love had been,

And could obtain no Grace,

For alt her prying lay, unseen,

Hid in a secret place:

Who had often been repuls'd

When he did come to

Woo her, Pull'd off his Cloaths, and furiously

Did run and leap into her.

She squeak'd, she cry'd, and down she

He brought her up again,

He brought her o'er upon the Shore,

And then-and then-and then.

As Adam did Old Eve enjoy,

You may guess what I mean,

Because she all uncover'd lay,

He cover'd her again.

With watery Eyes she pants and cries

«I'm utterly undone,

If you will not be wed to me,

E'er the next Morning Sun.

He answer'd her he ne'er would stir,

Out of her Sight till then,

«We'll both clap Hands in Wedlock Marry, and to't again.»