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