Wainamoinen, the magician,
The eternal wisdom-singer,
O’er the snow-fields hastened homeward,
Singing o’er the hills and mountains,
With his guest, the ancient Otso,
With his friend, the, famous Light-foot,
With the Honey-paw of Northland. 
Far away was heard the singing,
Heard the playing of the hunter,
Heard the songs of Wainamoinen;
All the people heard and wondered,
Men and maidens, young and aged,
From their cabins spake as follows: 
“Hear the echoes from the woodlands,
Hear the bugle from the forest,
Hear the flute-notes of the songsters,
Hear the pipes of forest-maidens!”
Wainamoinen, old and trusty,
Soon appears within the court-yard. 
Rush the people from their cabins,
And the heroes ask these questions: 
“Has a mine of gold been opened,
Hast thou found a vein of silver,
Precious jewels in thy pathway? 
Does the forest yield her treasures,
Give to thee the Honey-eater? 
Does the hostess of the woodlands,
Give to thee the lynx and adder,
Since thou comest home rejoicing,
Playing, singing, on thy snow-shoes?”
Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel,
Gave this answer to his people: 
“For his songs I caught the adder,
Caught the serpent for his wisdom;
Therefore do I come rejoicing,
Singing, playing, on my snow-shoes. 
Not the mountain lynx, nor serpent,
Comes, however, to our dwellings;
The Illustrious is coming,
Pride and beauty of the forest,
’Tis the Master comes among us,
Covered with his friendly fur-robe. 
Welcome, Otso, welcome, Light-foot,
Welcome, Loved-one from the glenwood! 
If the mountain guest is welcome,
Open wide the gates of entry;
If the bear is thought unworthy,
Bar the doors against the stranger.” 
This the answer of the tribe-folk: 
“We salute thee, mighty Otso,
Honey-paw, we bid thee welcome,
Welcome to our courts and cabins,
Welcome, Light-foot, to our tables
Decorated for thy coming! 
We have wished for thee for ages,
Waiting since the days of childhood,
For the notes of Tapio’s bugle,
For the singing of the wood-nymphs,
For the coming of dear Otso,
For the forest gold and silver,
Waiting for the year of plenty,
Longing for it as for summer,
As the shoe waits for the snow-fields,
As the sledge for beaten highways,
As the, maiden for her suitor,
And the wife her husband’s coming;
Sat at evening by the windows,
At the gates have, sat at morning,
Sat for ages at the portals,
Near the granaries in winter, Vanished,
Till the snow-fields warmed and
Till the sails unfurled in joyance,
Till the earth grew green and blossomed,
Thinking all the while as follows: 
“Where is our beloved Otso,
Why delays our forest-treasure? 
Has he gone to distant Ehstland,
To the upper glens of Suomi?”
Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 
“Whither shall I lead the stranger,