My Kantele

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 Moulded from sorrow Its belly out of hard days Its soundboard from endless woes Its strings gatheret from torments And its pegs from other ills 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.