Forth the poet doth hasten, threading the fleece of the sheep, in pursuit of the gods, having laid low all who withstood him.

He sendeth to the singers a rich reward of kine, in their thousands, whilst he doth cleanse himself.

With thine heed, thou gatherest all things unto thee; thou art made pure through our verse-born thought.

O Soma, thou shalt win us renown.

Hasten toward high-born glory, toward wealth that endureth, for our open-handed lords.

Bring forth delight unto the praisers.

Thou guardest the charge as doth a king; thou hast entered the lays, O Soma, even as thou art cleansed, O sure-footed draught-horse.

That steed, not lightly overtaken in the waters, well-curried by the priest’s hand,

O Soma, resteth in the cups.

Merry in soul, swift to bestow like a noble giver, thou passest through the sieve, O Soma, and makest firm the might of heroes for the singer.