Good King Wenceslaus 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 know'st its telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling? Sir, he lives a goodly kins, Underneath the mountain, Right against the forest's fence, By St. Agnes' fountain. Sir, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger, There's 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 tread, Where the snow lay tinted, He was in the very spot, Which the saint had printed. Therefore, Christian, then be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, He who now will bless the poor, Shall yourself find blessings.