I proclaim thy twain golden steeds at the high rite of giving.
I master the heart-cheering draught for thee who thirsteth for it, the draught that, like fresh-churned fat, droppeth with golden sweetness.

Let the songs flow into thee, whose shape is as gold.

They who have cried as one unto the womb of gold are they that urge the golden pair forth as to a seat in heaven.

To him whom they fill with the gold of the soma, as kine with golden milk, to Indra raise a strengthening song, steeped in golden joy.

Behold his mace of gold-hue, fashioned of bright metal.
Golden is the weapon, golden in both his hands.
Bright is he, and fair of lip, whose wrathful arm lifteth the golden blow.
Golden forms are set fast within Indra.

Like a beacon aloft in the sky, the joy-giving mace is raised.
It shall sweep wide, as a golden horse in full gallop.
The golden-lipped rod of metal smote the worm.
The bearer of gold-flame became thousandfold fire.

Thou alone wert made glad when the elders of old gave thee praise, O Indra of the golden hair.

Thou rejoicest still—thine is all bounty, full and fair, fit for the song, O thou born of gold.

These twin golden steeds bear in his wain the wielder of the golden mace, Indra the gladdened, praiseworthy.

For him, joying in the many pressings, the golden juice hath flowed.

Enough to fill his longing, the golden streams have run.
The golden ones urge on the unmatched pair of golden steeds.
He that rideth at will with golden reins hath reached his heart’s desire and the draught of gold.

Golden of beard and golden of hair, clad in metal, he drinketh the golden soma and waxeth in might.

With prize-rich mares and golden team, he shall bear his shining pair through all hard paths.

His golden lips, like spoons of offering, open wide, twitching with hunger for the prize.

When the cup is drained, he shall groom his golden steeds, his lips sweet with the gladdening stalk.

The seat of the joy-draught is set in both dwellings.
The gold-lord hath cried out for the prize as a racehorse doth neigh.
Even the Great Earth, the Hallowed One, was gladdened by thy might— and thou didst swell with high strength, gladdening thyself as well.

Glad art thou, and thou didst fill the world-halves with thy greatness.
Each dear new thought bringeth thee cheer.
O lord, reveal unto the golden sun the joy-filled stead of the cow.

Let the forerunners of the folk bring thee hither in thy car— thou golden-lipped in gladness, O Indra— that thou mayest drink the honeyed offering, and find thy joy in the ten-handed feast at the merry gathering.

Thou hast drunk the pressings of old, O holder of gold, and this pressing now is thine alone.

Drink deep the honeyed soma, Indra.
Rain it full into thy belly, O bull.