Good King Wenceslas looked out
on the feast of Stephen,
when the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even
Brightly shown 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 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 the 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
Ark 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 step 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