Good King Wenceslas
looked out on the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night,
though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight,
gathering winter fuel
Hither, page, and stand by me,
if thou know'st it telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he,
where, and what is dwelling?
Sir, he lives o 'er goodly dense,
underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence,
by St. Agnes' fountain.
Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
bring me pine logs hither,
Thou and I shall see him dine,
when we bear them thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together,
Through the rude winds, wild lament,
and the bitter weather.
Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind grows stronger.
Fails my heart, and no, not now,
I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps, my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the winter's rage,
Frees thy blood less coldly.
In his master's steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted,
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the
poor
shall yourselves find blessing.