Awake in one mind, O fellows of the hearth.
Together kindle the flame, ye many, sprung from a single nest.
I call down Dadhikrā, Agni, and the fair Dawn, each in the train of Indra, to stand at your side.

Make all things meetly glad; stretch forth your wise thoughts as upon a loom.
Shape ye a boat that shall cross the flood, steady by its oars.
Set your arms in array; trim them aright.
Lead forth the hallowing eastward, ye gathered hearts.

Yoke the ploughs; stretch wide the beams; cast the seed in the readied womb of earth.

If the hearing be fit for our lay, then let the ripened grain bow nearer to our blades.

The singers yoke their ploughs;
apart they stretch the beams—
the far-seeing ones who seek grace among the gods.

Draw forth the buckets; bind the cords fast.
Let us dip from the water's womb, from the spring that faileth not, that giveth freely.

The fount is made ready, her buckets strung well, her cords goodly, her waters steadfast.

From her I draw—sweet and unfailing.

Gladden the steeds: ye shall win the prize.
Only see thy chariot be well-wrought, and bringer of blessing.
Dip from the fount, whose buckets are cups of wood, whose wheel is stone, whose cask is wrapped in fleece— the spring that slaketh the thirst of men.

Raise up a fold for her, for she giveth drink to thy host.
Sew stout mail for her, broad and well-fitted.
Forge her fortresses, strong as steel and storm-proof.
Let no leak fall from the beaker—make it whole.

I turn to you a keen thought, gods, meet for this rite— a hallowed handmaid to serve at this offering.

Let her give us her milk as a great cow doth, flowing in a thousand streams as she goeth to graze.

Pour forth the tawny draught into wood’s bosom.
Hew the cup with axes of stone.
Bind him with ten girth-bands.
Yoke the draught-horse to the twin poles of the car.

Slowly he moveth betwixt the poles, like a man between two wives in the bedstead.
Set the lord of wood to stand amid the trees; place him well, and dig not up the spring.

The yard, the yard—lift it, ye men.
Stir it, thrust it, if ye would gain the prize.
Speed Niṣṭigrī’s son hither in haste, and call Indra swift to drink the soma.