Spun from flax of softest fiber,
Woven by the Moon’s white virgins,
Fashioned by the Sun’s bright daughters
Fitting raiment for Wellamo! 
“Ahto, king of all the waters,
Ruler of a thousand grottoes,
Take a pole of seven fathoms,
Search with this the deepest waters,
Rummage well the lowest bottoms;
Stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds,
Hither drive a school of gray-pike,
Drive them to our magic fish-net,
From the haunts in pike abounding,
From the caverns, and the trout-holes,
From the whirlpools of the deep-sea,
From the bottomless abysses,
Where the sunshine never enters,
Where the moonlight never visits,
And the sands are never troubled.” 
Rose a pigmy from the waters,
From the floods a little hero,
Riding on a rolling billow,
And the pigmy spake these measures: 
“Dost thou wish a worthy helper,
One to use the pole and frighten
Pike and salmon to thy fish-nets?”
Wainamoinen, old and faithful,
Answered thus the lake-born hero: 
“Yea, we need a worthy helper,
One to hold the pole, and frighten
Pike and salmon to our fish-nets.” 
Thereupon the water-pigmy
Cut a linden from the border,
Spake these words to Wainamoinen: 
“Shall I scare with all my powers,
With the forces of my being,
As thou needest shall I scare them?”
Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 
“If thou scarest as is needed,
Thou wilt scare with all thy forces,
With the strength of thy dominions.” 
Then began the pigmy-hero,
To affright the deep-sea-dwellers;
Drove the fish in countless numbers
To the net of the magicians. 
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Drew his net along the waters,
Drew it with his ropes of flax-thread,
Spake these words of magic import: 
“Come ye fish of Northland waters
To the regions of my fish-net,
As my hundred meshes lower.” 
Then the net was drawn and fastened,
Many were the gray-pike taken
By he master and magician. 
Wainamoinen, happy-hearted,
Hastened to a neighboring island,
To a blue-point in the waters,
Near a red-bridge on the headland;
Landed there his draught of fishes,
Cast the pike upon the sea-shore,
And the Fire-pike was among them,
Cast the others to the waters. 
Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 
“May I touch thee with my fingers,
Using not my gloves of iron,
Using not my blue-stone mittens? 
This the Sun-child hears and answers: 
“I should like to carve the Fire-fish,
I should like this pike to handle,
If I had the knife of good-luck.” 
Quick a knife falls from the heavens,
From the clouds a magic fish-knife,
Silver-edged and golden-headed,
To the girdle of the Sun-child;
Quick he grasps the copper handle,
Quick the hero carves the Fire-pike,
Finds therein the tortured lake-trout;
Carves the lake-trout thus discovered. 
Finds therein the fated whiting;