With the combs of molten silver,
With their silver-handled brushes,
Brushes forged with golden bristles. 
When they hear the magic playing,
Hear the harp of Wainamoinen,
Fall their brushes on the billows,
Fall their combs with silver handles
To the bottom of the waters,
Unadorned their heads remaining,
And uncombed their sea-green tresses. 
Came the hostess of the waters,
Ancient hostess robed in flowers,
Rising from her deep sea-castle,
Swimming to the shore in wonder,
Listened to the minstrel’s playing,
To the harp of Wainamoinen. 
As the magic tones re-echoed,
As the singer’s song out-circled,
Sank the hostess into slumber,
On the rocks of many colors,
On her watery couch of joyance,
Deep the sleep that settled o’er her. 
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Played one day and then a second,
Played the third from morn till even. 
There was neither man nor hero,
Neither ancient dame, nor maiden,
Not in Metsola a daughter,
Whom he did not touch to weeping;
Wept the young, and wept the aged,
Wept the mothers, wept the daughters
Wept the warriors and heroes
At the music of his playing,
At the songs of the magician. 
Wainamoinen’s tears came flowing,
Welling from the master’s eyelids,
Pearly tear-drops coursing downward,
Larger than the whortle-berries,
Finer than the pearls of ocean,
Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens,
Brighter than the eyes of swallows. 
From his eves the tear-drops started,
Flowed adown his furrowed visage,
Falling from his beard in streamlets,
Trickled on his heaving bosom,
Streaming o’er his golden girdle,
Coursing to his garment’s border,
Then beneath his shoes of ermine,
Flowing on, and flowing ever,
Part to earth for her possession,
Part to water for her portion. 
As the tear-drops fall and mingle,
Form they streamlets from the eyelids
Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen,
To the blue-mere’s sandy margin,
To the deeps of crystal waters,
Lost among the reeds and rushes. 
Spake at last the ancient minstrel: 
“Is there one in all this concourse,
One in all this vast assembly
That can gather up my tear-drops
From the deep, pellucid waters?”
Thus the younger heroes answered,
Answered thus the bearded seniors: 
“There is none in all this concourse,
None in all this vast assembly,
That can gather up thy tear-drops
From the deep, pellucid waters.” 
Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 
“He that gathers up my tear-drops
From the deeps of crystal waters
Shall receive a beauteous plumage.” 
Came a raven, flying, croaking,
And the minstrel thus addressed him: 
“Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops
From the crystal lake’s abysses;
I will give thee beauteous plumage,
Recompense for golden service.” 
But the raven failed his master. 
Came a duck upon the waters,