Stand ye, priests—lift up your eyes unto Indra’s rightful share.
If it be boiled and ready, then pour it forth!
If it be not yet done, then tarry and wait.

The offering is cooked.
Come forth, Indra, draw nigh—
for the sun standeth at the height of its path.
Thy fellows await thee with meat and with drink, as doth the goodwife wait upon the master of the field as he maketh his rounds.

The draught in the udder is done, I deem, and the draught on the flame is well seethed.

Aye, and this newer word—this song of ours—seemeth well kindled also.
O Indra, bearer of the mace, thou mighty in deed, quaff thou the soured milk of the Midday Pressing— and take thy joy therein.