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 Gath'ring winter fuel 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' fountain <♪> 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 step 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