Truly they lie, they talk utter noncense

Who say that music reckon that one kantele

Was fashioned by a god

Out of a great pike's shoulders

>From a water-dogs's hooked bones:

It was made from the grief

Moulded from sorrow



Its belly out of hard days

Its soundboard from endless woes

Its strings gathered from torments

And its pegs from other ills



So it will not play, will not rejoice at all

Music will not play to please

Give off the right sort of joy

For it was fashioned from cares

Moulded from sorrow