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
Steve White & The Protest Family 