“Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! 
Happier far my life hereafter,
With the cunning fox to wander,
Than with this ill-mannered suitor;
Reynard’s fur to me is finer
Than the robes of Ilmarinen.” 
Thereupon the metal-worker
Shut his lips in sore displeasure,
Hastened on the highway homeward;
Travelled but a little distance,
When again his courser halted. 
Quick the maiden looked in wonder,
in the snow beheld some foot-prints,
Spake these words to the magician: 
Who again has crossed our pathway?”
“’Tis the wolf”, said Ilmarinen. 
Thereupon the fated daughter
Fell again to bitter weeping,
And Intoned these words of sorrow: 
“Woe is me, a hapless maiden! 
Happier far my life hereafter,
Brighter far would be my future,
If these tracks I could but follow;
On the wolf the hair is finer
Than the furs of Ilmarinen,
Faithless suitor of the Northland.” 
Then the minstrel of Wainola
Closed his lips again in anger,
Shook his sable locks, resentful,
Snapped the whip above the racer,
And the steed flew onward swiftly,
O’er the way to Kalevala,
To the village of the blacksmith. 
Sad and weary from his journey,
Ilmarinen, home-returning,
Fell upon his couch in slumber,
And the maiden laughed derision. 
In the morning, slowly waking,
Head confused, and locks dishevelled,
Spake the wizard, words as follow: 
“Shall I set myself to singing
Magic songs and incantations? 
Shall I now enchant this maiden
To a black-wolf on the mountains,
To a salmon of the ocean? 
Shall not send her to the woodlands,
All the forest would be frighted;
Shall not send her to the waters,
All the fish would flee in terror;
This my sword shall drink her life-blood,
End her reign of scorn and hatred.” 
Quick the sword feels his intention,
Quick divines his evil purpose,
Speaks these words to Ilmarinen: 
“Was not born to drink the life-blood
Of a maiden pure and lovely,
Of a fair but helpless virgin.” 
Thereupon the magic minstrel,
Filled with rage, began his singing;
Sang the very rocks asunder,
Till the distant hills re-echoed;
Sang the maiden to a sea-gull,
Croaking from the ocean-ledges,
Calling from the ocean-islands,
Screeching on the sandy sea-coast,
Flying to the winds opposing. 
When his conjuring had ended,
Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge,
Whipped his steed upon a gallop,
Hastened to his ancient smithy,
To his home in Kalevala. 
Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
Comes to meet him on the highway,
Speaks these words to the magician: 
“Ilmarinen, worthy brother,
Wherefore comest heavy-hearted
From the dismal Sariola? 
Does Pohyola live and prosper? 
Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen: 
“Why should not Pohyola prosper? 
There the Sampo grinds unceasing,
Noisy rocks the lid in colors;