A wolf ran along the marsh,
bear wandered in from the heath,
The marsh stirred where the wolf stepped,
the heath where the bear set its paws.
There bog-iron came to the surface,
and a steel ingot grew
in the print of the wolf's claws,
in the mark of the bear's heel.
Craftsman Ilmarinen was born,
born on a charred hill,
grew on a charred heath,
with a copper hammer in his hand,
a little tongs in his grip.
Ilmarinen was born at night.
The next day he made a smithy.
Craftsman Ilmarinen spoke to iron,
"Fire will not burn you once it has
made your acquaintance,
will not abuse its kin.
When you come to fire's dwellings,
to the bright one's barricade,
there you will become beautiful,
rise up to be magnificent
as men's fine swords."
Iron ore the craftsman thrust into the fire,
forced it into the depths of his forge.
He blew his bellow once, blew twice,
blew a third time too. The iron gets
liquid like gruel, heaves like slag,
stretches like wheat paste, like rye
dough, in the craftsman's great fires,
in the power of the glowing flame.
Then craftsman Ilmarinen, eternal smith,
pulled iron out of the fire, put in on the anvil;
he works it soft, makes it into edged tools,
spears, axes, all kinds of tools.