Cast thy rays, thou fire of Ukko,
On the herdsman of the blacksmith,
On the head of Kullerwoinen,
On this poor and luckless shepherd,
Not in Ilmarinen’s smithy,
Nor the dwellings of his people;
Good the table of the hostess,
Cuts the best of wheaten biscuit,
Honey-cakes she cuts in slices,
Spreading each with golden butter;
Only dry bread has the herdsman,
Eats with pain the oaten bread-crusts,’
Filled with chaff his and biscuit,
Feeds upon the worst of straw-bread,
Pine-tree bark, the broad he feeds on,
Sipping water from the birch-bark,
Drinking from the tips of grasses I
Go, O Sun, and go, O barley,
Haste away, thou light of Ukko,
Hide within the mountain pine-trees,
Go, O wheat, to yonder thickets,
To the trees of purple berries,
To the junipers and alders,
Safely lead the herdsman homeward
To the biscuit golden-buttered,
To the honeyed cakes and viands!”
While the shepherd lad was singing
Kullerwoinen’s song and echo,
Ilmarinen’s wife was feasting
On the sweetest bread of Northland,
On the toothsome cakes of barley,
On the richest of provisions;
Only laid aside some cabbage,
For the herdsman, Kullerwoinen;
Set apart some wasted fragments,
Leavings of the dogs at dinner,
For the shepherd, home returning. 
From the woods a bird came flying,
Sang this song to Kullerwoinen: 
“’Tis the time for forest-dinners,
For the fatherless companion
Of the herds to eat his viands,
Eat the good things from his basket!”
Kullerwoinen heard the songster,
Looked upon the Sun’s long shadow,
Straightway spake the words that follow: 
“True, the singing of the song-bird,
It is time indeed for feasting,
Time to eat my basket-dinner.” 
Thereupon young Kullerwoinen
Called his herd to rest in safety,
Sat upon a grassy hillock,
Took his basket from his shoulders,
Took therefrom the and oat-loaf,
Turned it over in his fingers,
Carefully the loaf inspected,
Spake these words of ancient wisdom: 
“Many loaves are fine to look on,
On the outside seem delicious,
On the inside, chaff and tan-bark!”
Then the shepherd, Kullerwoinen,
Drew his knife to cut his oat-loaf,
Cut the hard and arid biscuit;
Cuts against a stone imprisoned,
Well imbedded in the centre,
Breaks his ancient knife in pieces;
When the shepherd youth, Kullervo,
Saw his magic knife had broken,
Weeping sore, he spake as follows: 
“This, the blade that I bold sacred,
This the one thing that I honor,
Relic of my mother’s people! 
On the stone within this oat-loaf,
On this cheat-cake of the hostess,
I my precious knife have broken. 
How shall I repay this insult,
How avenge this woman’s malice,
What the wages for deception?”
From a tree the raven answered: 
“O thou little silver buckle,
Only son of old Kalervo,