The moon shone bright, the frost was cruel
He lived a good league hence
But here to gather winter fuel
Lest he should burn the forest fence

When Wenceslas he did espy
And cried out Sire, why walk you by
And no longer bring me pine logs hither
Ye, who would bless the poor
A Christian man, good and sure
Whose allowance he’s content to wither

Wenceslas, full of grace
Struck the peasant in the face
Then struck again as he lay prone
Admonishing, leave me alone

Therefore, English men be sure
Without rank possessing
Question Wenceslas’s care
And you’ll receive his blessing