Thy chariot, O ye whose wheels roll smooth and round the bounds of earth, called upon at dusk and in the dawning hour by him who tenders offerings—
that holy chariot do we now call down, we, the most recent in a long line of callers, that worthy chariot, to be named as one nameth his own father.

Awaken the hand that giveth freely;
stir the wise heart, and quicken the flood of gifts— for this we hunger.

O Aśvins, give unto us a shining share;
make it dear to our noble friends, as soma is dear to the gods.

Ye are fortune itself, even for the aged wife who dwelleth at home.
Ye give aid to the laggard, and strength to the last in line.
To the blind man, O Nāsatyas, to the famished, to the broken— to all these ye are healers, so it is said.

Ye turned back time for old Cyavāna, made him young again, as one might refit a chariot and send it forth.

Ye drew Tugra’s son from the deep waters.
These deeds shall be spoken at the pressings.

I will lift your olden might before the gathered folk.
Ye were healers, bearers of bliss.
Now let us make you new, O Nāsatyas, that ye may aid us and win the trust of the wanderer.

And a woman cried,
“It was I who called you—hear me, O Aśvins!
As father and mother for their son, do all you can for me.
I am lone, kinless, friendless, witless— save me from this sorrow and shame.”

Ye brought down the sleek maiden of Purumitra to Vimada, ye twain in your chariot.

Ye came at the cry of Vadhrimatī, and ye made a soft birth for Puraṃdhi.

Ye gave back youthful fire to Kali, the seer grown near to age.
Ye dug forth Vandana from the snare of the antelope.
And in the blink of an eye, ye made swift Viśpalā whole again.

Ye lifted Rebha from his hiding place, from death itself, O strong Aśvins.

Ye made the earth’s wound and the burning vessel gentle for Atri and for Saptavadhri.

To Pedu ye gave a white steed, a bearer of ninety and nine prizes, a glory to men.
A horse sung in songs, a runner of runners, called upon like good luck itself— a living joy.

O twin kings and Aditi, no dread nor grief may reach the man whose chariot ye guide, with his wife beside him,
ye Aśvins ever-true, who ride the trail of the Rudras.

Ride hither now on your chariot swifter than thought, wrought by the R̥bhus’ hand, to which Heaven’s Daughter is yoked at dawn, and both bright halves of Vivasvant’s day.

Through mountain paths ye rode your conquering wheels, and caused the milk-cow to swell for Śayu, O Aśvins.

By your might, ye freed the quail from the very throat of the wolf who had swallowed it.

This song we have made for you, O Aśvins, this praise we have shaped— as the Bhr̥gus built their chariot, so have we framed these words.

We hold it close, as a bold youth clutches his bride, as a father cradles his son who shall bear his name beyond him.