Because this deathless draught, like a charger in his prime, showeth his craft and rule— a life-long art to thee, O wise one in the rites.

He is a wright among poets, a hammer in the hand of the giver.
Like one well-skilled, he bringeth the rousing draught, crowned with pearls, the draught that worketh wonders.

Yearning for the eager hawk, the bull amid his own kind, looked down upon them that swelled like snakes, or like full-fed kine beneath the storm—

He whom the fine-feather’d one, the hawk’s own son, bore from afar, he of a hundred wheels— he who is the path of the fruitful cow—

Him the falcon fetched for thee, borne on his foot, the cherished warder 'gainst the wolf, the ruddy keep of the sacred stalk.

By him is life made strong, the years made long; by him our house-bond holdeth fast and waketh.

So shall Indra, through this drop, win the great yielding of the gods’ own share.

By thy will is life, O thou of mighty heart; by thy will hath this soma been wrung from us.