| Good King Wenceslas looked out
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| On the feast of Stephen
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| When the snow lay round about
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| Deep and crisp and even
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| Brightly shone the moon that night
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| Though the frost was cruel
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| When a poor man came in sight
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| Gathering winter fuel
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| «Hither, page, and stand by me
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| If thou know’st it, telling
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| Yonder peasant, who is he?
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| Where and what his dwelling?»
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| «Sire, he lives a good league hence
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| Underneath the mountain
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| Right against the forest fence
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| By Saint Agnes' fountain»
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| «Sire, the night is darker now
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| And the wind blows stronger
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| Fails my heart, I know not how
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| I can go no longer»
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| «Mark my footsteps, my good page
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| Tread thou in them boldly
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| Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
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| Freeze thy blood less coldly»
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| In his master’s steps he trod
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| Where the snow lay dinted
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| Heat was in the very sod
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| Which the Saint had printed
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| Therefore, Christian men, be sure
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| Wealth or rank possessing
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| Ye who now will bless the poor
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| Shall yourselves find blessing |