In the magic fens of Turya;
Seek him in Tuoni’s empire,
In the death-courts of Manala. 
Long the search, and unsuccessful,
On the blue back of the ocean,
On the far-outstretching pastures. 
There arose from out the sea-waves,
Rose a hero from the waters,
On the white-capped, roaring breakers,
From the water’s broad expanses;
Nor belonged he to the largest,
Nor belonged he to the smallest;
Made his bed within a sea-shell,
Stood erect beneath a flour-sieve,
Hero old, with hands of iron,
And his face was copper-colored;
Quick the hero full unfolded,
Like the full corn from the kernel. 
On his head a hat of flint-stone,
On his feet were sandstone-sandals,
In his hand a golden cleaver,
And the blade was copper-handled. 
Thus at last they found a butcher,
Found the magic ox a slayer. 
Nothing has been found so mighty
That it has not found a master. 
As the sea-god saw his booty,
Quickly rushed he on his victim,
Hurled him to his knees before him,
Quickly felled the calf of Suomi,
Felled the young ox of Karelen. 
Bountifully meat was furnished;
Filled at least a thousand hogsheads
Of his blood were seven boatfuls,
And a thousand weight of suet,
For the banquet of Pohyola,
For the marriage-feast of Northland. 
In Pohyola was a guest-room,
Ample was the hall of Louhi,
Was in length a hundred furlongs,
And in breadth was nearly fifty;
When upon the roof a rooster
Crowed at break of early morning,
No one on the earth could hear him;
When the dog barked at one entrance,
None could hear him at the other. 
Louhi, hostess of Pohyola,
Hastens to the hall and court-room,
In the centre speaks as follows: 
“Whence indeed will come the liquor,
Who will brew me beer from barley,
Who will make the mead abundant,
For the people of the Northland,
Coming to my daughter’s marriage,
To her drinking-feast and nuptials? 
Cannot comprehend the malting,
Never have I learned the secret,
Nor the origin of brewing.” 
Spake an old man from his corner: 
“Beer arises from the barley,
Comes from barley, hops, and water,
And the fire gives no assistance. 
Hop-vine was the son of Remu,
Small the seed in earth was planted,
Cultivated in the loose soil,
Scattered like the evil serpents
On the brink of Kalew-waters,
On the Osmo-fields and borders. 
There the young plant grew and flourished,
There arose the climbing hop-vine,
Clinging to the rocks and alders. 
“Man of good-luck sowed the barley
On the Osmo hills and lowlands,
And the barley grew and flourished,
Grew and spread in rich abundance,
Fed upon the air and water,
On the Osmo plains and highlands,
On the fields of Kalew-heroes. 
“Time had travelled little distance,
Ere the hops in trees were humming,
Barley in the fields was singing,