The soma-draughts, stirred to mirth, pressed at the holy rite, go forth in strength for the renown of our well-doer.

Then the maidens of Trita, even the fingers, urge him on— the tawny one—with stones, the drop poured out for Indra’s drink.

And as the lead goose stirreth the cry of her flock, so he hath roused the thought of all to bellowing.

Like a steed among kine is he anointed and yoked.

O Soma, thou lookest upon both realms;
like a mighty wild-fowl cast into flight, thou rushest on, and comest to rest upon the womb of truth.

The kine have lowed to him, as a maiden to her dear one; he draweth nigh to them as to a trial rightly set.

Grant unto us bright glory, O god, to our friends and to me—
wisdom and a name that shall not fade.