After the soma is pressed, we lift thy praise, O Indra, and again when the prize is won, thou man of stalwart might.

Bestow thy blessing on him whom thou delightest in.
Through our own hands and our fathers’ name, may we prevail by thy aid.

Thou wast high and mighty even in thy first breath, O Indra, boldest of warriors.
With the sun beside thee, thou shalt strike the Dāsa tribes low, as thou didst smite the hidden one, fit to be veiled, lurking in the deep— to thee we pour the soma, gushing like a flood.

Or lift thy voice in turn to the stranger’s song, thou wise one, seer and singer glad in noble thought.

Let us be those who take delight in the draughts of soma, by this and by the shares we set apart for thee, who rideth in thy car.

These holy words are spoken now unto thee, O Indra.
Grant the strength of men unto men, O battle-lord.
Hold fast in heart with those thou lovest well, and shield the singers and their folk from harm.

Harken to Pr̥thī’s cry, O strong Indra,
and be lifted by the lays of Venya, who hath shouted toward thy ghee-rich womb.
As a wave stirreth the deeps, so his songs surge forth and swell.