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 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    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