Good King Wenceslaus
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 his dwelling?
Sire, he lives on Woodley Pence,
Underneath the mountain,
Riding 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 bathe in 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 blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps,
my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the winter's rage,
freeze thy blood less coldly.
In his master's steppe he trod,
where the snow lay din ted.
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!
Shall yourselves find blessing!