1 Good King Wenceslas look’d out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night,
Tho’ the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gath’ring winter fu--el.
2 “Hither, page, and stand by me,
If thou know’st 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’ foun--tain.”
3 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 weath—er.
4 “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 good, my page;
Tread thou in them boldly;
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy bloodless cold—ly.”
5 In his master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed;
There fore, Christian men, be sure,
While God’s gifts possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
Shall your-selves find bless—ing.
