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Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song he settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored;
Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: