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