The guileless cry aloud to him who is dear unto Indra; and the Mothers, as milk-cows their newborn calf, lap the tawny draught at his first uprising.

While thou art strained, O drop of Soma, bear us wealth twice lofty; for in the righteous household thou cherishest all fair things.

Unleash the piercing thought, yoke-mated with the mind, even as thunder lets the rain go free; so dost thou nourish treasures of earth and of the sky, O Soma.

Pressed, thy torrent wheels in ring, the victor’s steed in full career, sweeping through the fleece as a champion homeward laden with his spoil.

For our will and cunning, O poet-juice, refine thyself in plenteous flow—Soma pressed for Indra’s bowl, for Mitra and for Varuṇa.

Be thou made pure, prime winner of rich rewards, within the sieve; stream forth most honey-sweet for Indra and for Viṣṇu, yea, for every god, O Soma.

The spotless Mothers lick thee, tawny beam, within the cloth, as kine caress their newborn calf, O self-brightening one, when thou dost swell in might.

Self-cleansing drop, thou drivest unto ringing fame with thy resplendent shafts; in pride thou dashest every shadow from the godly man’s abode.

O thou of sovereign mandate, towering beyond both heaven and earth, thou hast girt thy shining mantle round about thee in thine immeasurable majesty.