These drops have surged forth, swiftly crossing the cloth, bearing with them all tokens of good fortune.

They that seek the prize have burst through every hindrance, making the paths smooth for our seed and for our steed, stretching out the way by their own might.

They open a broad field for the kine, and haste toward the lovely song,
toward the draught that endureth for our gladdening.

The plant is bruised in the water for rapture’s sake— the mighty one that dwelleth upon the hill.

As a falcon he hath perched upon his womb.

The fair stalk, longed for by the gods—
rinsed in the waters, crushed by mortal hands— is sweetened by the cows with their milk.

Then, as riders dress the horse, they have adorned him for the undying ones:
the mead-sap, made ready for the common feast.

Thy streams, o honey-bearing drop, that have gushed forth for our good—
with these hast thou taken thy place upon the filter.

Hasten across the sheep's fleece,
O drink for Indra, thou that sittest upon thy womb in wooden bowls.

Stream about, O drop, sweet to the Aṅgirases,
finder of broad lands, drawn unto the ghee and milk.

Lo, the boundless one is set firm;
cleansing himself, he perceiveth the high friendship, being driven onward.

This bull, obeying the call of his own bull’s law, cleanseth himself, shattering the curse, and shall bestow bounty on the devout.

In thy cleansing, bring us wealth—
a thousand kine and steeds, a wealth that gleameth, a treasure longed for.

Lo, this one is poured in a ring, ever tended by the sons of long life,
he that fareth far with the soul of a bard.

With a thousand shapes of aid, a hundred boons,
measurer of the airy reach, and poet—
the gladsome draught doth cleanse himself for Indra.

Born upon the hill, or begotten of hymn, praised in this place, the drop is laid for Indra—
a bird within his womb, as if in a nest.

Cleansing himself, pressed by the hands of men, Soma hath run, as if to a prize, to rest in the cups by his own craft.

They yoke him to the chariot thrice-backed and thrice-seated, to be driven, harnessed by the seven seeing thoughts
of the seven seers.

O ye that press, urge on the fleet one to run for the spoil— the golden go-getter, the winner of wealth.

Bruised and poured into the vat, rushing to all that is bright,
he taketh his stand among the kine, a champion.

The sons of long life milk thy milk for mirth, O drop; the gods milk honey for their own delight.

Send into the cloth our soma—
sweetest for the gods, and clearest to their hearing.

These juices of soma, sung over in hymn, have surged for great renown, a stream of most rousing joy.

Thou rushest, while cleansed, to chase the kine and manly strength—
flowing around, seizing the prize.

And dash thou toward all our feasts, stocked with kine, ringed about with rhythm, sung by Jamadagni.

Cleanse thyself, Soma,
with thy brightening aid, going before the voice
to touch all fruit of bardic skill.

Thou that goest in front, stirring the sea’s waters and the tongues of men, cleanse thyself, thou that sett’st all things astir.

For thee, O singer, these worlds take their station;
for thy greatness, O Soma, the rivers make haste.

As showers from heaven, thy streams pour forth unspent,
seeking the shining floor beneath.

Cleanse the drop for Indra—
the mighty one who bringeth triumph to the craft, the lord whose gifts are worth the seeking.

Self-cleansing Soma, the true-speaking bard, hath sat in the cloth, laying up for the singer
a store of heroes.