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Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense |
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Who say that music reckon that the kantele |
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Was fashioned by God |
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Out of a great pike's shoulders |
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From a water-dog's hooked bones: |
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It was mouldered from sorrow |
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It's belly out of hard days |
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Its sound board from endless woes |
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Its strings gathered from torments |
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And it pegs from other ills |
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Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense |
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So it will not play, will not rejoice at all |
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Music will not play to please |
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Give off the right sort of joy |
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For it was fashioned from cares |
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Mouldered from sorrow |
