Good King Wenceslas

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, Tho the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gathring winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me, If thou knowst it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling? Sire, he lives a good league hence, Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, Bring me pine logs hither Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither. Page and monarch, forth they went, Forth they went together; Thro the rude winds wild lament And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer. Mark my footsteps, good my page; Tread thou in them boldly Thou shalt find the winters rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his masters 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.