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      Its belly out of hard days   Its soundboard from endless woes   Its strings gathered from torments   And its pegs from other ills   Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense      So it 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.