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Good King Wenceslas looked out |
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On the Feast of Stephen |
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When the snow lay 'round about |
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Deep and crisp and even |
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Brightly shone, the moon that night |
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Though the frost was cruel |
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When a poor man came in sight |
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Gathering winter fuel |
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"Hither, page and stand by me |
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If thou know'st it, telling |
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Yonder peasant, who is he? |
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Where and what his dwelling?" |
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"Sire, he lives a good league hence |
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Underneath the mountain |
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Right against the forest fence |
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By Saint Agnes' fountain" |
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"By the night, is darker now |
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And the wind blows stronger |
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Fails my heart, I know not how |
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I can go no longer" |
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"Mark my footsteps, my good page |
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Tread thou in them boldly |
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Thou shall find the winter's rage |
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Freeze the blood less coldly" |
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In his master's step he trod |
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Where the snow lay dinted |
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Heat was in the very sod |
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Which the Saint had printed |
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Therefore, Christian men rejoice |
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Wealth or rank possessing |
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Ye, who now shall bless the poor |
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Shall yourselves, find blessing |