Those who strode forth as cattle in frenzy—wild, unruled, and storming, they smote and cast down the black-skinned foe.

We shall recall the smoothest path of Soma, that passeth clean beyond the woven snare— for we have o’erthrown the lawless Dasyu.

A sound ariseth, like the roar of rain—
'tis the voice of the tempest that cleanseth itself.
Bright bolts of flame do wander through the heavens.

O drop, in thy cleansing draw unto thyself great refreshment— riches in kine, in gold, in steeds and well-won gain, when thou art pressed.

Cleanse thyself, thou boundless one;
fill the wide world-halves, as Dawn herself doth fill them,
as doth the sun with beams outspread.

O Soma, pour for us thy guarding stream on every side, as Rasā in the heights, flowing over the fair-borne rim.