The rosy-fingered ones speed the Sun; the sister-kin urge forth their lord; those who seek the mighty hasten the mighty drop.

O thou that cleansest thyself, with light upon light, god among gods, enter thou into all things good.

By cleansing thyself, bring hither fair praise, sweet rain, and favor from the gods, unceasing, for our refreshment.

For thou art a bull—we call on thee with watchful hearts, thou who art bright with burning gleam, O self-purifying one.

By thy cleansing, bring to us a host of heroes, thou thyself made glad, O bearer of goodly arms.

Draw near us now, O drop.

When thou art poured round with the waters, groomed in twin hands, thou findest thy seat within the wooden womb.

Sing out to the self-cleansing Soma, as Vyaśva once did— to the great thousand-eyed one.

He whose tawny form, dripping with honey, is driven like a fallow steed by the stones— the drop for Indra's draught.

With thee, the prize-seeker who hath won all the stakes, do we strike our bond.

O bull, cleanse thyself in a streaming flood, be the gladdening draught for the storm-lord with his fellows, seizing all by thy might.

Thou, O self-cleansing one, bright as the sun, bearer of (Indra’s?) twin arms, do I send forth—the prize-seeker toward the prize.

Marked by this god-breathéd verse, purify thyself, O tawny one, in this same stream; spur on thy yoke-mate to the spoils.

Cleanse thyself and bring great delight to us, O drop seen by all, show us the way, O Soma.

The vats cry out, O drop! In their streams, with force, enter them, that Indra may drink.

Thou, whose sharp, rousing sap is drawn with the stones— cleanse thyself, breaker of hate.

The king goeth by wisdom, purging himself before Manu’s face, to ride the middle sky.

Bear unto us, O drop, a hundredfold thriving of kine, a wealth of horses, and fortune’s own gift, for our aid.

Bring us strength and speed, O Soma, as if in flesh and shape, for brightness’ sake, when thou art pressed to seek the gods.

Rush on, O Soma, most shining, to the wooden bowls, ever roaring, resting as a falcon in thy hollowed home.

For Indra, for Vāyu, for Varuṇa, for the Maruts, for Vishnu— the water-winning Soma doth run.

Set refreshment round us and our kin,
O Soma; cleanse thyself and bring us treasure by the thousand.

Whether pressed far off, or near at hand, or yonder in the reed-filled lake, let all the Soma flows be gathered.

Those drawn in foaming places, in the midst of homes, or among the fivefold tribes—

Let them all, by cleansing, bring us heavenly rain and a host of heroes—the gods, the drops, being pressed.

He cleanseth himself, the sweet, tawny one, as Jamadagni sings him, sped forth upon the cow-hide.

Forth rush the clear ones, quickened with might, sped like teams in flight; made ready, they are groomed in the waters.

Those present at the pressing have sped thee toward the godly hall.
Cleanse thyself in this fair light.

Here thy skill, which is bliss itself, do we choose this day— as draught-beast, as longed-for drink.

Here the heart-cheering draught, here the worthy choice, here the soul-singer, here the inspiréd one, here the longed-for drink.

Here is wealth, here kindly heed, here—O strong of will— upon our very flesh, here the longed-for drink.