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 Though the frost was cruel When a poor man came in sight Gathering 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 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 Freeze thy blood less coldly
In his master's steps he trod Where the snow lay dented 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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