Múrdin weibs us last 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,
and him withdrew.
Will the pager stand by me,
if the nurse is telling,
Young the peasant, who is he,
where and what his dwelling?
So he leaves a goodly place
Underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence,
I sit there es corted.
Bring me flesh and bring me wine,
Bring me my God's little,
Thou and I will see him die,
when we bear them thither.
Age and honour, forth they went,
forth they went together,
Through the ruins
where the mence
and the bees are weathered.
Sir, the night is darker now,
An d the wind grows stronger,
This, my heart, I know not how,
I can grow no longer.
Mark thy footsteps,
good my page,
Tread thou in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
freeze thy bloodless body.
In his master's steps he trod,
where the snow -grey deep -dead.
He t 'was in the very sword
which the saint had printed.
Therefore Christian men be sure,
Wealth of rank possessing,
He who now will bless the
poor
Shall yourselves find bless ing.