Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense
Who say that music reckon that the kantele
Was fashioned by a god

Out of a great pike's shoulders
From a water-dog'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.