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Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay around 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's it, telling,
Younder 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;
'Thous and I will see him dine,
When we bear them thither."
Page and Monarch forthe they when,
Forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's 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,
Free thy blood less coldly.
In his master's step 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.
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