The Song of Mantsi
A translation of Mantsin laulu
“Heroes speak of heroes,
women tell women’s tales,
bridegrooms speak of heartache,
maidens of their maiden worries.
What will I, a poor man, speak of?
I will speak of a young maiden.
Was it a wolf that brought down the graceful one?
Was the fair one taken by a bear?
Did an eagle grab the decorated one?
Did a viper bite her heel?
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for the young maiden was taken away
by Simo Hurtta, the evil man;
he made her lovely eyes cry
with his wild wolf-eyes,
hurt her red cheeks
with his hairy bear-cheeks,
destroyed her shapely hair
with his eagle-claws,
made her firm breasts wither
on his cold viper-bosom.
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for I am not man enough
to take an arrow to the groove,
to raise an axe,
to be worthy of a spear of war;
old age has taken away my once renowned strength,
sickness has sapped my powers,
sorrow has broken what was left.
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for there is no man in Karelia,
no one in the great tribe
to avenge the fair maiden,
to slay the evil man
with arrow, with blade,
or even the butt of an axe.
Have the mighty ones fallen in war?
Did the plague maim the strong?
Have our men been swallowed by the sea?
Have they sunk into the ground?
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for all the heroes are alive,
the house is full of swordsmen,
the floors teeming with grown men,
helmet-wearers on the doorstep,
young men on the stairs;
yet the spear of revenge is not raised
and no lightning of heaven strikes.
The joy of Mantsi is lost,
Ilomantsi is gone from the land,
our houses are dark,
the minds of men darker,
when no moon shines on the alleys
and no sun illuminates the yards;
every doorstep longs for
her who paced here once, wearing flowers,
every floor sings about
her who walked among the grass once,
sweet glades cry for
her who danced in the summer . . .”
The song of old Mantsi flowed
and the house rang,
men were brought to tears,
heads sank to knees;
boys wept, girls wept,
strong heroes were crying,
maidens were crying even more,
girls in Karelia burst into tears;
men’s swords rang,
the fires of war were kindled.
“Heroes speak of heroes,
women tell women’s tales,
bridegrooms speak of heartache,
maidens of their maiden worries.
What will I, a poor man, speak of?
I will speak of a young maiden.
Was it a wolf that brought down the graceful one?
Was the fair one taken by a bear?
Did an eagle grab the decorated one?
Did a viper bite her heel?
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for the young maiden was taken away
by Simo Hurtta, the evil man;
he made her lovely eyes cry
with his wild wolf-eyes,
hurt her red cheeks
with his hairy bear-cheeks,
destroyed her shapely hair
with his eagle-claws,
made her firm breasts wither
on his cold viper-bosom.
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for I am not man enough
to take an arrow to the groove,
to raise an axe,
to be worthy of a spear of war;
old age has taken away my once renowned strength,
sickness has sapped my powers,
sorrow has broken what was left.
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for there is no man in Karelia,
no one in the great tribe
to avenge the fair maiden,
to slay the evil man
with arrow, with blade,
or even the butt of an axe.
Have the mighty ones fallen in war?
Did the plague maim the strong?
Have our men been swallowed by the sea?
Have they sunk into the ground?
That would not distress me so,
but I have a greater worry,
for all the heroes are alive,
the house is full of swordsmen,
the floors teeming with grown men,
helmet-wearers on the doorstep,
young men on the stairs;
yet the spear of revenge is not raised
and no lightning of heaven strikes.
The joy of Mantsi is lost,
Ilomantsi is gone from the land,
our houses are dark,
the minds of men darker,
when no moon shines on the alleys
and no sun illuminates the yards;
every doorstep longs for
her who paced here once, wearing flowers,
every floor sings about
her who walked among the grass once,
sweet glades cry for
her who danced in the summer . . .”
The song of old Mantsi flowed
and the house rang,
men were brought to tears,
heads sank to knees;
boys wept, girls wept,
strong heroes were crying,
maidens were crying even more,
girls in Karelia burst into tears;
men’s swords rang,
the fires of war were kindled.