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 knowst 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 fountain

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 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 shalt find the winter's rage 
Freeze thy blood less coldly

In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dented
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