Lauloi päivät pääksytysten, yhytysten yöt saneli
muinaisia muisteloita, noita syntyjä syviä,
joit' ei laula kaikki lapset, ymmärrä yhet urohot
tällä inhalla iällä, katovalla kannikalla.

Kauas kuuluvi sanoma, ulos viestit vierähtävät
Väinämöisen laulannasta, urohon osoannasta.
Viestit vierähti suvehen, sai sanomat Pohjolahan.

Olipa nuori Joukahainen, laiha poika lappalainen.
Se kävi kylässä kerran; kuuli kummia sanoja,
lauluja laeltavaksi, parempia pantavaksi
noilla Väinölän ahoilla, Kalevalan kankahilla,
kuin mitä itseki tiesi, oli oppinut isolta.

Tuo tuosta kovin pahastui, kaiken aikansa kaehti
Väinämöistä laulajaksi paremmaksi itseänsä.
Jo tuli emonsa luoksi, luoksi valtavanhempansa.
Lähteäksensä käkesi, tullaksensa toivotteli
noille Väinölän tuville kera Väinön voitteloille.

Iso kielti poikoansa, iso kielti, emo epäsi
lähtemästä Väinölähän kera Väinön voitteloille:
"Siellä silma lauletahan, lauletahan, lausitahan
suin lumehen, päin vitihin, kourin ilmahan kovahan,
käsin kääntymättömäksi, jaloin liikkumattomaksi."

Sanoi nuori Joukahainen: "Hyväpä isoni tieto,
emoni sitäi parempi, oma tietoni ylinnä.
Jos tahon tasalle panna, miesten verroille vetäitä,
itse laulan laulajani, sanelen sanelijani:
laulan laulajan parahan pahimmaksi laulajaksi,
jalkahan kiviset kengät, puksut puiset lantehille,
kiviriipan rinnan päälle, kiviharkon hartioille,
kivihintahat kätehen, päähän paatisen kypärän."

Siitä läksi, ei totellut. Otti ruunansa omansa,
jonka turpa tulta iski, säkeniä säärivarret;
valjasti tulisen ruunan korjan kultaisen etehen.
Itse istuvi rekehen, kohennaikse korjahansa,
iski virkkua vitsalla, heitti helmiruoskasella.
Läksi virkku vieremähän, hevonen helettämähän.

Ajoa suhuttelevi. Ajoi päivän, ajoi toisen,
ajoi kohta kolmannenki. Jo päivänä kolmantena
päätyi Väinölän ahoille, Kalevalan kankahille.

- Kalevala, III runo

[continue]

Far away in dismal Northland,
Lived the singer, Youkahainen,
Lapland's young and reckless minstrel,
Once upon a time when feasting,
Dining with his friends and fellows,
Came upon his ears the story
That there lived a sweeter singer,
On the meadows of Wainola,
On the plains of Kalevala,
Better skilled in chanting legends,
Better skilled than Youkahainen,
Better than the one that taught him.

Straightway then the bard grew angry,
Envy rose within his bosom,
Envy of this Wainamoinen,
Famed to be a sweeter singer;
Hastes he angry to his mother,
To his mother, full of wisdom,
Vows that he will southward hasten,
Hie him southward and betake him
To the dwellings of Wainola,
To the cabins of the Northland,
There as bard to vie in battle,
With the famous Wainamoinen.

"Nay," replies the anxious father,
"Do not go to Kalevala."

"Nay," replies the fearful mother,
"Go not hence to Wainamoinen,
There with him to offer battle;
He will charm thee with his singing
Will bewitch thee in his anger,
He will drive thee back dishonored,
Sink thee in the fatal snow-drift,
Turn to ice thy pliant fingers,
Turn to ice thy feet and ankles."
These the words of Youkahainen:
Good the judgement of a father,
Better still, a mother's counsel,
Best of all one's own decision.
I will go and face the minstrel,
Challenge him to sing in contest,
Challenge him as bard to battle,
Sing to him my sweet-toned measures,
Chant to him my oldest legends,
Chant to him my garnered wisdom,
That this best of boasted singers,
That this famous bard of Suomi,
Shall be worsted in the contest,
Shall become a hapless minstrel;
By my songs shall I transform him,
That his feet shall be as flint-stone,
And as oak his nether raiment;
And this famous, best of singers,
Thus bewitched, shall carry ever,
In his heart a stony burden,
On his shoulder bow of marble,
On his hand a flint-stone gauntlet,
On his brow a stony visor."

Then the wizard, Youkahainen,
Heeding not advice paternal,
Heeding not his mother's counsel,
Leads his courser from his stable,
Fire outstreaming from his nostrils,
From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting,
Hitches to his sledge, the fleet-foot,
To his golden sledge, the courser,
Mounts impetuous his snow-sledge,
Leaps upon the hindmost cross-bench,
Strikes his courser with his birch-whip,
With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled.
Instantly the prancing racer
Springs away upon his journey;
On he, restless, plunges northward,
All day long be onward gallops,
All the next day, onward, onward,
So the third from morn till evening,
Till the third day twilight brings him
To the meadows of Wainola,
To the plains of Kalevala.

As it happened, Wainamoinen,
Wainamoinen, the magician,
Rode that sunset on the highway,
Silently for pleasure driving
Down Wainola's peaceful meadows,
O'er the plains of Kalevala.

- Kalevala, 3rd Poem
translated by John Martin Crawford