Sing ye unto him, ye men—to the self-cleansing draught, for he maketh his way unto the gods on high.

The men of Atharvan have mingled thy milk with honey, a god for the gods they have brewed in their seeking.

Make thyself clean, a blessing to our kine, a blessing to our folk, a blessing to our steed, a blessing to our growing things, O kingly draught.

Now unto the brown one of boundless strength, the ruddy one who toucheth the heavens, to Soma, lift ye a song.

Make pure the Soma, pressed with stones that move by hand; wash honey in honey, and let it be sweet indeed.

Draw nigh in homage alone; with curds do thou blend it.
Set the drop in Indra, where might abideth.

O Soma, thou that smitest without end, cleanse thyself for the good of our kine, doing the will of the gods with thy deeds.

Thou art poured all about, O Soma, for Indra to drink, to gladden his soul—who knoweth all thought, and ruleth o’er mind.

O self-cleansing Soma, grant us wealth,
and a host of mighty ones,
O drop divine, with Indra as our yoke-fellow.