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Down by the well,
Where a little girl cries;
At the sound of a bell,
Her poor mother dies.

There wasn't a sound,
Till the clock struck twelve,
And the little girl fell
at the second bell.

As morning soon rose
and the clouds cleared away,
The old farmer smiled,
at the end of his tale;
"Now little children, you best beware.
That when the third bell rings, there'll
be a new tale to tell."
But the children went home,
Before the bell rung;
All but the last,
For he was soon hung.

And the Old farmer laughed
All the way towards the well,
Beside Satan's fire,
To send the boy to hell.

Though something was wrong,
For a fourth bell was rung.
And down the steep hill,
The old farmer fell.

With his neck badly broken,
His eyes looked up.
Where the dead girl smiles,
Laughing, all the while.
"Now old farmer. Whose tale is left to tell?"