Like an archer hidden in wait, who sendeth his shaft far off, like a servant full of care and swiftness, bring thou the song of praise for him.

With thy voice, O poet whose soul is stirred, outdo the tongue of the stranger.
Draw Indra nigh to our soma—let him rest here at thy singing.

Woo thy friend as one draweth a cow for the milk—entice him with sweetness.
Stir Indra awake, even as a lover is stirred from slumber.
Rouse the champion to loose his gifts, like a brimming bucket spilling over with good things.

Is it not said of thee, O bounteous one, that thou art the giver?
Sharpen me, for I have heard thy name is Sharpening itself.
Let my insight strike true, strong one. Bring hither Bhaga, the finder of gain, O Indra.

In the press of peoples who strive each for their own, each calleth upon thee when the cry riseth for “mine.”

He that bringeth offering hath thee as yokemate; the hero keepeth no bond with him who presseth not the soma.

Whoso bringeth a pleasing gift, and presseth the sharp drops full and free— rich as herds that stream upon the land— to him dost thou yoke thy foes as steeds, well spurred and ready at dawn.
Thou breakest down the bar that hinders.

Indra, whom we praise, who hath set his longing upon us, the freely giving one— may his rival, though he be far off, be struck with fear; may the fair things of all peoples bend low before him.

With that mighty staff of thine, O oft-called one, cast the foe afar, even beyond the far bounds.

Heap us high with barley and kine, O Indra.
For the singer, make his insight bright with prizes as with jewels.

Indra, within whom the strong pressings dwell, the fierce soma-drops, running full unto the end— he shall not hold back his hand.
He beareth down treasure and blessing for the one who presseth.

And lo, though he play past his share, yet shall he win the whole, when he who holdeth the lucky cast draweth forth the perfect throw.

Whoso hath longing for the gods keepeth not back his stake; to him doth the self-ruling one grant wealth in full.

With kine let us drive out the scorn of neglect, and with barley be rid of all hunger, O thou who art called on in many tongues.

With our kings and our kindred, may we be the first to win the prize.

Let Indra, lord of shaping word, shield us on every side— behind and above, beneath and before, and in the midst— from him who seeketh us harm.
As a friend, may he stretch wide the field for his friends.