Count Vorvlaceslav (a Winterfair carol)

Count Vorvlaceslav looked out
  from his mighty tower
On the snowy fields about,
   deep in winter's power.
All was well despite the cold;
   harvest had been good.
Then he spied a hillman old,
   gath'ring fallen wood.

"Armsman, is that fellow lost?
   Why does he draw nigh here?
Out in such a bitter frost,
   has he come to spy here?"
"He was sorely wounded, lord,
   your* borderlands defending.
Firewood* he cannot afford,
   he has nought for spending."

"Bread and wine and meat and fuel
   we shall carry to him.
He has served me well and true,
   no less now is due him."
Count and Armsman, forth they went
   through the frozen valley,
Minds and hearts on duty bent
   in their twilight sally.

"Colder grows the night, my lord,
   and the wind blows stronger.
Now it pierces like a sword,
   I can go no longer."
"Walk behind me, liegeman true,
   facing in its teeth,
Where my footprints breaking through
   show the soil beneath."

Sheltered at his master's back
   from the winter's storming,
'Neath his feet he felt the track
   like a hearthstone warming.
Man and master, hearken both,
   listen, liege and lord:
Loyalty to plighted troth
   brings its own reward.