Swift he came, whetting himself like a dread bull with sharpened horns, smiting again and again, stirrer of all the stead-bound tribes, making them wail as one, the lone hero who never sleepeth— he who felled a hundred hosts at once—yea, Indra.

With him who maketh the host to cry aloud, whose eyes never close, whose stride is triumph, who stirs up war and cannot be swayed,
who is bold in heart—
with Indra now strike, now scatter the foe, O men, with the bull whose hand beareth arrows.

He, with bowmen at his side, he, with the quiver-bearing throng,
Indra the headstrong,
who sendeth warriors surging like the tide, who drinketh soma, boastful in strength, the bow-lord whose aim is death—
he conquereth those whom he rouseth.

Br̥haspati, fly on thy chariot wheels, breaker of fiends, scourge of the friendless.
Dash their ranks to ruin, grind them under, win the field—be the strength behind our war-wains.

By might made known, firm-footed and fierce, forefighter and taker of spoils, stronger than all in the crush of men,
born from force unyielding—
O Indra, mount thy war-chariot, finder of kine, go forth to win.

Breaker of pens, finder of herds, he that holdeth the mace in his grip,
he that gains the path and smiteth with might— show forth thy war-strength, ye kindred of his; gather thyselves in his likeness, ye brethren-in-arms.

Rushing with storm-force upon the stalls, the hero without mercy, Indra of hundredfold wrath, who shaketh not, nor turneth back,
whose war cannot be met—
let him lead our hosts to triumph in the fight.

Let Indra go before them as their forerunner, and Br̥haspati with the gift, the rite, the soma; let the Maruts speed ahead at the vanguard of the godly hosts who shatter and win.

Of Indra the bull and of Varuṇa the king, great is the band of the Ādityas and the Maruts— of gods deep in counsel and strong in hand, the earth-trembling cry of war is arisen.

Rouse our weapons, O giver of gifts;
stir the minds of these my young warriors; lift up, O smasher of Vr̥tra, the zeal of the strivers; let the war-cry rise from the conquering chariots.

Indra is ours when the banners clash;
our arrows—let them find their mark.
Our champions—let them prevail.
Hear us amid the cries, O ye gods.

Turn their sight to confusion, Lady Panic; seize their limbs and fly.

Go forth upon them; burn their hearts with flame.
Let the friendless fall into blind dark.

Go ye forth and overcome, O men.
Let Indra be thy shield.
Let your arms wax strong, that none may dare to strike you down.