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Then his mother interrupted,

Asking him his cause of trouble.

“Wherefore whet the men their sword-blades,

Wherefore sharpen they the lance-tips?”

Answered lively Lemminkainen,

Said the handsome Kaukomieli,

“Therefore do they whet their sword-blades,

Therefore they the lance-tips sharpen:

On the head of me unhappy,

On my neck to bring destruction.

From a quarrel rose a duel,

There in Pohjola’s enclosure;

I have slain the son of Pohja,

Slain the very lord of Pohja,

Then rose Pohjola to battle,

Close behind me comes the tumult,

Raging all for my destruction,

To surround a single warrior.”

Then his mother gave him answer,

To her child the old crone answered:

“I myself already told you,

And I had already warned you,

And forbidden you most strictly

Not to Pohjola to venture.

Had you stayed at home in quiet,

Living in your mother’s dwelling,

Safely in your parent’s homestead,

In the home of her who bore thee,

Then no war had ever risen,

Nor appeared a cause of contest.

“Whither now, my son unhappy,

Canst thou flee, unhappy creature,

Go to hide thee from destruction,

Flying from thy wicked action,

Lest thy wretched head be captured,

And thy handsome neck be severed,

That thy hair remain uninjured,

Nor thy glossy hair downtrodden?”

Said the lively Lemminkainen,

“No such refuge do I know of,