The plants that were born ere the gods arose, those elder sprouts of the third foretime— their one hundred and seven forms I now call to mind, those brown-clad healers of old.

A hundred are thy shapes, O mother, and a thousand be thy shoots.
Ye who hold a hundred crafts and guiles— make this man whole for my sake.

Be glad, ye plants, for ye bloom and bear.
Like victors in the race, your shoots run forth.

O ye mothers called herbs, O goddesses,
thus do I beseech you:
Grant that I may gain a steed, a cow, a cloak— in curing this man, thy very self.

Your throne is set in the fig-tree’s shade, your rest in the shelter of the broad-leaved bough.

A share of the kine shall be thine when thou bringest health unto the man.

When the herbs are gathered as kings in council, then the seer is hailed a healer— one who smiteth fiends and driveth out all ill.

The Horse-bearer, the Soma-holding one,
the Strength-bringer, the Overcomer—
all these herbs have I summoned, that no harm come upon this man.

Unhindered the powers of the plants rise, as cows from the byre at morn— to seize their stake, to claim the man as theirs.

Thy mother is the one men call Restorer, and ye are Expellers all.

Ye are stream-paths with wings, who cast forth all that bringeth woe.

They have stepped o’er the hedges as a thief o’er a wall.
The herbs have driven out the ill that dwelt within the flesh.

When I lay hold of these herbs with my hand, and stir their strength within, the very soul of sickness fleeth,
as if to escape the snare.

Where'er ye creep o'er limb and joint, drive forth the ill from him—
as a great man casteth out a foe mid his hall.

Fly forth, O sickness, with the cry of the cāṣa-bird, and with the kikidīví-bird’s wing— be swept away with the rushing wind,
perish in the storm-blast.

Let one of you aid another, and each lend hand to each.
All ye together—stand with this prayer of mine.

Whether ye bloom with fruit or go bare,
whether ye flower or flower not—
stirred by Bṛhaspati, let all your host free us from harm.

Loose us from the bonds of curse, from the chain of Varuṇa,
and from the yoke of Yama—
from each misdeed 'gainst the gods.

Down from the heavens the herbs did speak:
"The man whom we do reach alive—
he shall be safe from all harm."

These many herbs, of a hundred hues, whose king is Soma—
thou art their chief, enough for our longing, a joy unto our soul.

Ye herbs whose king is Soma, who spread wide upon the earth—
stirred by Bṛhaspati, grant strength of heroes unto this green wight.

Hurt not the hand that diggeth thee, nor him for whom I seek thee out.
Let both man and beast go unscathed.

All ye that hear, both near and far, all ye shoots who gather in one—
bestow your might upon this one here, your power of healing.

The herbs make pact with Soma, the king:
“For whom the priest doth act, him shall we raise and restore, O king.”

Thou art the chiefest, O herb.
The trees do bow to thee.
And he who would do us wrong—
let him bow unto us in thy shadow.