human
O my mother, aged woman, Seek the storehouse on the mountain, Bring me thence my shirt, the fine one, Likewise bring the finest clothing, That I now may put it on me, And may fitly clothe me in it.
gpt
Whither goes my son, my dearest, Dost thou go to hunt the lynxes, 60 Or to chase the elk on snowshoes, Or perchance to shoot a squirrel?
human
O my mother who hast borne me, Not to hunt the lynx I wander, Nor to chase the elk on snowshoes, Neither go I squirrel shooting, But I seek the feast at Pohja, And the secret drinking-party, 70 Therefore fetch my shirt, the fine one, Bring me, too, the finest clothing, That I hasten to the wedding, And may wander to the banquet.