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With her long spool she was working,

As she turned around her spindle.

I was not at her departure,

Near her when her soul was parting.

Perhaps the cold was great and killed her,

Or perchance was bread too scanty.

“In the house with care, O wash her,

With the Saxon soap, the finest,

Wind her then in silken wrappings,

Wrap her in the finest linen,

Thus unto the grave convey her,

Sink her gently down to Kalma,

Then upraise the songs of mourning,

Let resound the songs of mourning,

For not yet can I turn homeward,

Untamo is still unfallen,

Yet unfelled the man of evil,

Undestroyed is yet the villain.”

Forth he went to battle, playing,

Went to Untola rejoicing,

And he said the words which follow:

“Ukko, thou, of Gods the highest,

Give me now a sword befitting,

Give me now a sword most splendid,

Which were worth an army to me,

Though a hundred came against me.”

Then the sword he asked was granted,

And a sword of all most splendid,

And he slaughtered all the people,

Untamo’s whole tribe he slaughtered,

Burned the houses all to ashes,

And with flame completely burned them,

Leaving nothing but the hearthstones,

Nought but in each yard the rowan.

Kullervo, Kalervo’s offspring,

Then to his own home retired,

To his father’s former dwelling,

To the home-fields of his parents.

Empty did he find the homestead,

Desolate the open places;