Chant ye aloud a foremost song, a chariot of praise, a stronghold of hymn to Indra.
As one who maketh room where none is found, a smiter of the serpent in battle and strife—be thou our goad, our stirrer to might.
— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

Thou sentest the rivers downward in rush, thou didst crush the snake.
Born without peer, O Indra, thou art the nurse of all that hath worth.
We draw thee near and hold thee fast.
— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

All the wraths of the foreign shall fade, and our songs shall rise beyond theirs.

Thou art wont to loose the deadly shaft upon the foe who seeketh our fall— and thy open hand is true giving.

— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

Indra, the folk round about, who like wolves would set their gaze on us— place them low, beneath our tread.

Thou art the mighty subduer, the breaker of pride.
— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

Indra, whoso among our own blood riseth against us, and whoso beyond our bounds—lay his greatness low.

Thou art as Heaven itself in thine own being.
— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

We come seeking thee, Indra, and clasp thy fellowship.
Guide us through truth’s way, through every narrow strait.
— Let the small bowstrings of the lesser bands snap on their bows.

O Indra, put forth thy strength for her who shall draw forth some rare sweetness for the singer’s tongue— that the great cow, whose udder is whole, shall brim with milk for us in a thousand streams.