“Do I see some smoke arising,
Or perchance a heavy storm-cloud,
Near the border of the forest,
Near the ending of the prairie?”
It was not some smoke arising,
Nor indeed a heavy storm-cloud,
It was Untamoinen’s soldiers
Marching to the place of battle. 
Warriors of Untamoinen
Came equipped with spears and arrows,
Killed the people of Kalervo,
Slew his tribe and all his kindred,
Burned to ashes many dwellings,
Levelled many courts and cabins,
Only, left Kalervo’s daughter,
With her unborn child, survivors
Of the slaughter of Untamo;
And she led the hostile army
To her father’s halls and mansion,
Swept the rooms and made them cheery,
Gave the heroes home-attentions. 
Time had gone but little distance,
Ere a boy was born in magic
Of the virgin, Untamala,
Of a mother, trouble-laden,
Him the mother named Kullervo,
“Pearl of Combat,” said Untamo. 
Then they laid the child of wonder,
Fatherless, the magic infant,
In the cradle of attention,
To be rocked, and fed, and guarded;
But he rocked himself at pleasure,
Rocked until his locks stood endwise;
Rocked one day, and then a second,
Rocked the third from morn till noontide;
But before the third day ended,
Kicks the boy with might of magic,
Forwards, backwards, upwards, downwards,
Kicks in miracles of power,
Bursts with might his swaddling garments
Creeping from beneath his blankets,
Knocks his cradle into fragments,
Tears to tatters all his raiment,
Seemed that he would grow a hero,
And his mother, Untamala,
Thought that be, when full of stature,
When he found his strength and reason,
Would become a great magician,
First among a thousand heroes. 
When. three months the boy had thriven,
He began to speak as follows: 
“When my form is full of stature,
When these arms grow strong and hardy,
Then will I avenge the murder
Of Kalervo and his people!”
Untamoinen bears the saying,
Speaks these words to those about him;
“To my tribe he brings destruction,
In him grows a new Kalervo!”
Then the heroes well considered,
And the women gave their counsel,
How to kill the magic infant,
That their tribe may live in safety. 
It appeared the boy would prosper;
Finally, they all consenting,
He was placed within a basket,
And with willows firmly fastened,
Taken to the reeds and rushes,
Lowered to the deepest waters,
In his basket there to perish. 
When three nights had circled over,
Messengers of Untamoinen
Went to see if be had perished
In his basket in the waters;
But the prodigy, was living,
Had not perished in the rushes;
He had left his willow-basket,
Sat in triumph on a billow,
In his hand a rod of copper,
On the rod a golden fish-line,
Fishing for the silver whiting,
Measuring the deeps beneath him;