When thou, O Indra, didst fill the twin world-halves— as Dawn filleth the sky with her golden breath— then was thy begetting wrought by She Who Beareth, by the fair and fateful Begetter wast thou born.

Loosen the bow of the wrathful man, whose heart is ill and set against us.
Cast him down beneath our feet, who dareth to lift his eye upon us.
The Begetter divine bore thee, the bright and blessèd Begetter bore thee.

Strike down the high, all-glistening draughts of might, O smiter of foes, O Indra strong in craft— do so by thy many-handed grace,
by thy shapes of help and thy endless store.
The Begetter divine bore thee, the bright and blessèd Begetter bore thee.

For all these thou shakest down, O Indra, resolute of heart, in hundreds of intents— as wealth falleth to the press-man’s hand, with help in thousands folded— the Begetter divine bore thee,
the bright and blessèd Begetter bore thee.

As sweat-beads scatter from the brow, so let the arrows fall, all round about— like sharp-edged grass of durva spread, let ill-will pass away from us.
The Begetter divine bore thee, the bright and blessèd Begetter bore thee.

Thou that wearest thy strength as a shepherd his crook, O wise in counsel, rich in gift— thou holdest it firm, even as a goat
holdeth the bough with its strong forefoot.
The Begetter divine bore thee, the bright and blessèd Begetter bore thee.

O ye gods, we blot you not, nor cast you aside; we heed your hallowed words in awe.

We cling unto you—by the side, by the shoulder— faithful in rite, steadfast in speech.