Indra, drink of the pressed soma at thy pleasure, for the draught at dawn is thine by right.

Rouse thyself, O champion, to smite the foes; with hymns shall we tell of thy manly deeds.

Thy chariot, swifter than thought, O Indra— with it make haste to this hallowed drink.

Let thy pale steeds, full of fire, run hither, bullish ones that bear thee in thy rapture.

Let thy body be graced with golden gleaming, touched by the sun’s fairest beams.

When thou art called by thy comrades here, sit and share in our joy, be gladdened with us.

Thou, in thy ecstasy, art too great for earth and sky to hold thee in their bounds.
Come, Indra, to this dwelling-place, thy pale steeds yoked, thy dear ones near, thy feast made ready.

Oft hast thou drunk, and foes fell down; none may match thy mirthful might.

The soma awakens thy fullness and force— it is crushed and poured to gladden thee.

Here stands thy cup of old, O Indra—
drink thou soma, thou of a hundred wills.
The trough runneth over with honeyed joy, a draught that the gods in heaven do love.

For all the tribes, with joyful gifts prepared, do strive to win thy grace in many ways.

Let ours be the sweetest upon thy lips—
these pressings here. Take thy delight.

Thy deeds of old I now proclaim, those first-born acts of strength.
Thou, fired with battle's fervor, didst rend the stone and make the cow come forth at the holy word.

Be seated, Lord of Hosts, among thy hosts.
They name thee wisest of all the wise.
Without thee, naught is done—
come, mighty giver, and lift the song to brightness.

Watch over us in our need, O bounteous one.
Be friend to thy friends, O lord of treasure.
Make war, thou war-doer—make joy, thou joy-giver.
Give us a share of wealth, though yet unmeasured.