| Good King Wenceslas looked out, 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 though know’st it, telling,
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| Yonder peasent, 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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| «Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
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| Bring me pine logs hither;
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| Thou and I will see him dine,
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| When we bear them thither.»
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| Page and monarch, forth they went,
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| Forth they went together;
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| Thro' the rude wind’s wild lament
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| And the bitter weather. |