Let the new-pressed draughts haste to Indra—the tawny torrents to the Thunder-Bull—drops born of his quickened ear that track the hidden sun.

Here, for Indra’s sake, the gain-bringing wanderer is strained; Soma marks the Victor, as all men ken.

In the rapture of such liquor Indra clutched a ripe handful of wealth and brandished the bullish mace—he who wins all battles in the waters’ realm.

Speed forth, thou wakeful Soma; eddy about for Indra, O brightening drop. Summon the flashing, storm-fleet power that unearths the sun.

For Indra refine thyself to bullish ecstasy, a sight for every eye—thou of a thousand courses, path-carving, wide of gaze.

Sweetest to the gods, surest guide of our way, roar along thy thousand roadways.

Purge thyself in shining streams, O drop, that with new might thou mayest overtake the gods. Honey-rich, take thy seat within our vat, O Soma.

Thy droplets, swimming in the waters, have nerved Indra for delight; the gods have quaffed thee for their deathless share.

Pressed drops, while ye are cleansed, drive riches hither—loosen the skies to rain, set the waters streaming, and light upon the sun.

Soma, wave-borne, races across the sheep’s white fleece—herald of speech, self-purging, ever resounding.

With piercing thought they urge the prize-winner who plays amid the wood and wool; their voices ring toward the three-backed Lord.

Surging toward the tubs as a contest-team for spoil, he pours forth—purified and world-quickening.

The fair fallow Bay speeds across the tufted cloth, showering glory of heroes upon the singers.

Thus cleanse thyself, questing the gods—see how the honey streams leap. Harsh with rasping cry, wheel about the filter on every side.