What the service thou art needing?”
Sampsa Pellerwoinen answers: 
“This indeed, the needed service
That I ask of thee, O aspen: 
Need thy lumber for a vessel,
For the boat of Wainamoinen,
Wisest of the wisdom-singers.” 
Quick and wisely speaks the aspen,
Thus its hundred branches answer: 
“All the boats that have been fashioned
From my wood have proved but failures;
Such a vessel floats a distance,
Then it sinks upon the bottom
Of the waters it should travel. 
All my trunk is filled with hollows,
Three times in the summer seasons
Worms devour my stem and branches,
Feed upon my heart and tissues.” 
Pellerwoinen leaves the aspen,
Hunts again through all the forest,
Wanders through the woods of Northland,
Where a pine-tree comes to meet him,
Of the height of fourteen fathoms. 
With his axe he chops the pine-tree,
Strikes it with his axe of copper,
As he asks the pine this question: 
“Will thy trunk give worthy timber
For the boat of Wainamoinen,
Wisest of the wisdom-singers?”
Loudly does the pine-tree answer: 
“All the ships that have been fashioned
From my body are unworthy;
I am full of imperfections,
Cannot give thee needed timber
Wherewithal to build thy vessel;
Ravens live within ray branches,
Build their nests and hatch their younglings
Three times in my trunk in summer.” 
Sampsa leaves the lofty pine-tree,
Wanders onward, onward, onward,
To the woods of gladsome summer,
Where an oak-tree comes to meet him,
In circumference, three fathoms,
And the oak he thus addresses: 
“Ancient oak-tree, will thy body
Furnish wood to build a vessel,
Build a boat for Wainamoinen,
Master-boat for the magician,
Wisest of the wisdom-singers?”
Thus the oak replies to Sampsa: 
“I for thee will gladly furnish
Wood to build the hero’s vessel;
I am tall, and sound, and hardy,
Have no flaws within my body;
Three times in the months of summer,
In the warmest of the seasons,
Does the sun dwell in my tree-top,
On my trunk the moonlight glimmers,
In my branches sings the cuckoo,
In my top her nestlings slumber.” 
Now the ancient Pellerwoinen
Takes the hatchet from his shoulder,
Takes his axe with copper handle,
Chops the body of the oak-tree;
Well he knows the art of chopping. 
Soon he fells the tree majestic,
Fells the mighty forest-monarch,
With his magic axe and power. 
From the stems he lops the branches,
Splits the trunk in many pieces,
Fashions lumber for the bottom,
Countless boards, and ribs, and braces,
For the singer’s magic vessel,
For the boat of the magician. 
Wainamoinen, old and skilful,
The eternal wonder-worker,
Builds his vessel with enchantment,
Builds his boat by art of magic,
From the timber of the oak-tree,
From its posts, and planks, and flooring.