Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense

Who say that music reckon that the kantele

Was fashioned by God

Out of a great pike's shoulders

From a water-dog's hooked bones:

It was made from grief

It's belly out of hard days

Its sound board from endless woes

Its strings gathered from torments

And it pegs from other ills

Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense

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

Mouldered from sorrow