Speak the truth, O magic alder,
Speak not words of man, nor hero,
Hither bring but truthful measures. 
Let us form a sacred compact: 
If thou speakest me a falsehood,
I will hurl thee to Manala,
Let the nether fires consume thee,
That thine evil signs may perish.” 
Thereupon the alder answered,
Spake these words of truthful import: 
“Verily the Sun lies hidden
And the golden Moon is sleeping
In the stone-berg of Pohyola,
In the copper-bearing mountain.” 
These the words of Wainamoinen: 
“I shall go at once to Northland,
To the cold and dark Pohyola,
Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden
All Wainola’s fields and forests.” 
Forth he hastens on his journey,
To the dismal Sariola,
To the Northland cold and dreary;
Travels one day, then a second,
So the third from morn till evening,
When appear the gates of Pohya,
With her snow-clad hills and mountains. 
Wainamoinen, the magician,
At the river of Pohyola,
Loudly calls the ferry-maiden: 
Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter,
Bring a strong and trusty vessel,
Row me o’er these chilling waters,
O’er this rough and rapid river! "
But the Ferry-maiden heard not,
Did not listen to his calling. 
Thereupon old Wainamoinen,
Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood,
Knots and needles of the fir-tree,
Made a fire beside the river,
Sent the black smoke into heaven
Curling to the home of Ukko. 
Louhi, hostess of the Northland,
Hastened to her chamber window,
Looked upon the bay and river,
Spake these words to her attendants: 
“Why the fire across the river
Where the current meets the deep-sea,
Smaller than the fires of foemen,
Larger than the flames of hunters?”
Thereupon a Pohyalander
Hastened from the court of Louhi
That the cause he might discover,’
Bring the sought-for information
To the hostess of Pohyola;
Saw upon the river-border
Some great hero from Wainola. 
Wainamoinen saw the stranger,
Called again in tones of thunder: 
“Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland,
For the minstrel, Wainamoinen! 
Thus the Pohyalander answered: 
“Here no skiffs are lying idle,
Row thyself across the waters,
Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers,
To propel thee o’er the river,
O’er the sacred stream of Pohya.” 
Wainamoinen, long reflecting,
Bravely thus soliloquizes: 
“I will change my form and features,
Will assume a second body,
Neither man, nor ancient minstrel,
Master of the Northland waters!”
Then the singer, Wainamoinen,
Leaped, a pike, upon the waters,
Quickly swam the rapid river,
Gained the frigid Pohya-border. 
There his native form resuming,
Walked he as a mighty hero,
On the dismal isle of Louhi,
Spake the wicked sons of Northland: 
Come thou to Pohyola’s court-room.” 
To Pohyola’s, court he hastened. 
Spake again the sons of evil: