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   Gathering winter fuel      Hither, page and stand by me   If thou knows 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's fountain      Bring me flesh and bring me wine   Bring me fur logs, hither   Thou and I will see him dine   Here 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, good my page   Tread thou in them boldly   Thou shall find the winter's rage   Freeze thy blood less coldly      In his master's steps 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