| 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
|
| Gath’ring winter fuel
|
| «Bring me flesh and bring me wine
|
| Bring me pine-logs hither
|
| Thou and I will see him dine
|
| When we bear him 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 shall find the winter’s rage
|
| Freeze 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 |