In his sleigh he seats the virgin,
Snugly wraps her in his far-robes,
Snaps his whip above the racer,
Gallops on the high-road homeward;
With one hand the reins be tightens,
With the other holds the maiden. 
Speaks the virgin-daughter, weeping: 
We have reached the lowland-berries,
Here the herbs of water-borders;
Leave me here to sink and perish
As a child of cold misfortune. 
Wicked Ilmarinen, Iisten! 
If thou dost not quickly free me,
I will break thy sledge to pieces,
Throw thy fur-robes to the north-winds.” 
Ilmarinen makes this answer: 
“When the blacksmith builds his snow-sledge,
All the parts are hooped with iron;
Therefore will the beauteous maiden
Never beat my sledge to fragments.” 
Then the silver-tinselled daughter
Wept and wailed in bitter accents,
Wrung her hands in desperation,
Spake again to Ilmarinen: 
“If thou dost not quickly free me,
I shall change to ocean-salmon,
Be a whiting of the waters.” 
“Thou wilt never thus escape me,
As a pike I’ll fleetly follow.” 
Then the maiden of Pohyola
Wept and wailed in bitter accents,
Wrung her hands in desperation,
Spake again to Ilmarinen;
“If thou dost not quickly free me,
I shall hasten to the forest,
Mid the rocks become an ermine!”
“Thou wilt never thus escape me,
As a serpent I will follow.” 
Then the beauty of the Northland,
Wailed and wept in bitter accents,
Wrung her hands in desperation,
Spake once more to Ilmarinen: 
“Surely, if thou dost not free me,
As a lark I’ll fly the ether,
Hide myself within the storm-clouds.” 
“Neither wilt thou thus escape me,
As an eagle I will follow.” 
They had gone but little distance,
When the courser shied and halted,
Frighted at some passing object;
And the maiden looked in wonder,
In the snow beheld some foot-prints,
Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 
Who has run across our highway?”
“’Tis the timid hare”, he answered. 
Thereupon the stolen maiden
Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow,
Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 
“Woe is me, ill-fated virgin! 
Happier far my life hereafter,
If the hare I could but follow
To his burrow in the woodlands! 
Crook-leg’s fur to me is finer
Than the robes of Ilmarinen.” 
Ilmarinen, the magician,
Tossed his head in full resentment,
Galloped on the highway homeward,
Travelled but a little distance,
When again his courser halted,
Frighted at some passing stranger. 
Quick the maiden looked and wondered,
In the snow beheld some foot-prints,
Spake these measures to the blacksmith: 
Who has crossed our snowy pathway?”
“’Tis a fox”, replied the minstrel. 
Thereupon the beauteous virgin
Moaned again in depths of anguish,
Sang these accents, heavy-hearted: 
“Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! 
Happier far my life hereafter,