O Indra, thee alone the Kāṇvas praise, thee alone we call upon. Strengthen thy might, O wielder of the bolt; be gracious unto us, O mighty one.

Thou art the sole drinker of the Soma draught; thou goest forth in solitude to battle. No other god hath dared to match thee in the field, nor in the feast of pressed-out juice.

With one right hand thou holdest the thunderbolt; with one thou givest forth the gifts of war. Indra, no god, no mortal man, no demon—none may stand against thy wrath.

Thou smotest Vṛtra in the darkness; thou didst split the mountain with thy bolt. The pent-up waters rushed forth in their fury, and the seven rivers flowed to nourish the earth.

That dragon lay upon the waters, coiled in deadly slumber, when thou didst wake to war. Thou rousedst thyself as a lion stirs; thou drankest of the Soma, and thy strength was kindled.

Then went thy bolt forth like the hawk in flight, and caught him where he lay. The heaven trembled at thy casting; the earth shook beneath the blow.

The demons Namuchi and Śuṣṇa thou didst break; Śambara's citadels fell before thee like grass beneath the sickle. Thou hast crushed the hundred Paṇis; thou hast laid the boastful low.

What treasures did they hoard, O Indra! What cattle did they gather in their mountain lairs! All these thou didst seize and bring forth, pouring them upon thy faithless servants.

The Kāṇvas thou dost favour; to us thou givest freely. Horses fine and many, cattle by the hundred, riches without reckoning—these are the gifts of Indra unto those who praise.

No other god hath wrought such deeds; no Marut, no Āditya, no Varuṇa above. Thou art the sole warrior in the three worlds; thou art the mightiest of the mighty.

When thou didst loose the seven rivers from the mountain's hold, the floods rushed forth to the sea in triumph. The earth received them as a mother takes her son; the waters blessed the fields.

Thou hast made the Sun to shine; thou hast given forth the Dawn. Thou hast set the heavens aloft; thou hast spread the earth below. All that is, O Indra, owes its being unto thy ancient might.

Come now to the pressing-stones; the Soma floweth for thee, O Bull. The priests have kindled up the fire; the offering is spread before thee. Drink deep, O Thunderer, and be filled with joy.

We pour the juice for thee; we sing the hymns for thee; we call thee by the sacred names. Turn thy face toward the singer; let thy ear be bent to hear our praise.

The gift of cattle followeth the praise; the gift of steeds attendeth on the song. O generous Indra, let thy bounty flow; fill the pious man with riches.

Thou hast ever been the friend of those who press the Soma; thou hast ever cherished the devout. The weak thou strengthenest; the lowly thou lifteth up. In the assembly of the mighty, thou givest speech.

Go forth, O Indra, smiting all the foes that rise against thy worshippers. Be thou a wall of iron; be thou a fortress unassailable. Guard us, preserve us, keep us safe from every evil.

The mornings come, and we prepare the feast; the sun descendeth, and the rite is done. Yet ever in our hearts we hold thee, O Indra, by night and by day, without ceasing.

Thy name is spoken in the dwelling; thy deeds are sung upon the road. From the greatest unto the least, all men know the mighty Indra and cry unto him for aid.

Come not with wrath toward thy singers; turn not thy face away in anger. We are thy servants, humble and devout; we seek thy favour and thy friendship.

The battle rages, and the foe advanceth with shield and spear uplifted. Then do we call upon thee, Indra, and thou hearest; thou comest forth to war as a lion leaps forth from his lair.

With the thunderbolt thou smashest all resistance; no fortress can withstand thee. The enemy flieth before thy face, and his heart is filled with terror.

Victory followeth thee as the shadow followeth the man; conquest attendeth thy footsteps. O Indra, do not forsake thy faithful servants in the hour of peril.

The soma-juice, when pressed, doth rise as incense toward the sky. The voices of the singers blend in hymn and sacred utterance. The fire flares up, receiving all the offering.

And thou, O Indra, sittest in the seat of honour, drinking deep of that which hath been pressed. Thy belly groweth full; thy strength increaseth; thy spirits rise like the eagle on the wind.

Then art thou most benevolent; then dost thou give freely, without stint or measure. Then dost thou grant the boon that mortal men most crave—the wealth of cattle and of steeds.

O Indra, there is none beside thee; of all the gods, thou art the greatest. In might, in glory, in the giving of gifts—none may be compared unto thee.

We the Kāṇvas sing thy praises; we have made the hymn resound. Hear us, O Thunderer; accept our offering; be pleased with us, and grant us thy blessing.

Wax mighty with these songs; let thy strength increase; let thy generosity grow without bound. For thee do we exalt our voices; for thee do we make this ceaseless prayer.

Be our friend, O Indra, forever and always. Lead us to victory; bring us safe through all trials. Grant us the wealth of the righteous; let us prosper in all that we undertake.

Thus the Kāṇvas praise thee, O Bull of Thunder. Thus we exalt thy name in the assembly of the gods. Hear us, mighty Indra; turn thy grace upon us; and may we forever dwell in thy favour.