Thou one-eyed, misshapen she-fiend, hie thee unto the hills—thou Sadānvā!
With the war-host of Śirimbiṭha at our side, we cast thee forth and drive thee hence.

She is cast out from this stead and from that, having laid her hands upon every unborn babe.

Fall upon her, O Brahmaṇaspati of the sharp horn— gore her and lay her low.

Lo, that driftwood yonder, borne to the far shore of the river, rudderless, without hand to guide— lay hold of that, thou with thy foul maw, and be gone unto the far-off waste.

When ye hags with rusted coffers bend and beat upon your breasts, then were Indra’s foes undone, and all their spendings burst like bubbles into naught.

These men have led the kine in circle; they have borne the flame in rite.
Their name is sung among the gods—
who now dareth lift hand against them?