Careful laid them in their boxes,
Many seasons have they lain there,
Have not seen them since my childhood. 
Deck thy brow with silken ribbon,
Trim with gold thy throbbing temples,
And thy neck with pearly necklace,
Hang the gold-cross on thy bosom,
Robe thyself in pure, white linen
Spun from flax of finest fiber;
Wear withal the richest short-frock,
Fasten it with golden girdle;
On thy feet, put silken stockings,
With the shoes of finest leather;
Deck thy hair with golden braidlets,
Bind it well with threads of silver;
Trim with rings thy fairy fingers,
And thy hands with dainty ruffles;
Come bedecked then to thy chamber,
Thus return to this thy household,
To the greeting of thy kindred,
To the joy of all that know thee,
Flushed thy cheeks as ruddy berries,
Coming as thy father’s sunbeam,
Walking beautiful and queenly,
Far more beautiful than moonlight.” 
Thus she spake to weeping Aino,
Thus the mother to her daughter;
But the maiden, little bearing,
Does not heed her mother’s wishes;
Straightway hastens to the court-yard,
There to weep in bitter sorrow,
All alone to weep in anguish. 
Waiting long the wailing Aino
Thus at last soliloquizes: 
“Unto what can I now liken
Happy homes and joys of fortune? 
Like the waters in the river,
Like the waves in yonder lakelet,
Like the crystal waters flowing. 
Unto what, the biting sorrow
Of the child of cold misfortune? 
Like the spirit of the sea-duck,
Like the icicle in winter,
Water in the well imprisoned. 
Often roamed my mind in childhood,
When a maiden free and merry,
Happily through fen and fallow,
Gamboled on the meads with lambkins,
Lingered with the ferns and flowers,
Knowing neither pain nor trouble;
Now my mind is filled with sorrow,
Wanders though the bog and stubble,
Wanders weary through the brambles,
Roams throughout the dismal forest,
Till my life is filled with darkness,
And my spirit white with anguish. 
Better had it been for Aino
Had she never seen the sunlight,
Or if born had died an infant,
Had not lived to be a maiden
In these days of sin and sorrow,
Underneath a star so luckless. 
Better had it been for Aino,
Had she died upon the eighth day
After seven nights had vanished;
Needed then but little linen,
Needed but a little coffin,
And a grave of smallest measure;
Mother would have mourned a little,
Father too perhaps a trifle,
Sister would have wept the day through,
Brother might have shed a tear-drop,
Thus had ended all the mourning.” 
Thus poor Aino wept and murmured,
Wept one day, and then a second,
Wept a third from morn till even,
When again her mother asked her: 
“Why this weeping, fairest daughter,
Darling daughter, why this grieving? 
Thus the tearful maiden answered: