looked out on the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about,
Brightly shone the moon that night,
though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Hear the page and stand by me,
On the peasant, who is he?
Where and what is dwelling?
Sire, he lives awkwardly hence
Right against the forest fence
Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Thou and I will see him die
When we bear them thither
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Through the woodwinds' wild lament,
Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind blows stronger
Hail's my halt, I know not how,
But my footsteps guide my page,
tread thou in them proudly
Thou shalt find the winter's rage,
his eye -gland last coldly.
In his master's dusty trough,
where the small ant eated,
which the saint had printed,
That the prince remembered sure,
while the rank possessing,
We all will bless the throne,
Try yourselves, find blood and sing.