Truly they lie
They speak utter nonsense
Who say that music,
Reckon that the kantele
Was carved by Väinämöisen
Fashioned by a God
Out of a great pike's shoulders
From a water dog's hooked bones
No, music was made from 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 my kantele will not play
Will not rejoice at all
No, music will not play to please
Or give off the right sort of joy
For it was fashioned from cares
Moulded from sorrow.