Let not our tawny drops be stayed in their flow— forth let them run, when press’d, unto them that dwell in the heights of heaven.

If foes should reach our draughts of cheer, then shall the stranger's hope be dashed; our wise-born thoughts shall overcome.

Forth let the drops be loosed—those that stir the soul, those by which we speed the coursers to the goal, o’er all the winding ways of men.
May we bear off the prize evermore.

Now if strife rise among our own, we say, "Lo, he is no kin, but alien!" And if it be the foe, "Lo, he is a wolf!"

Let thirst seize them, as in a waste.
O Soma, self-cleansing one, smite the ill-willed from our midst.

It was in heaven’s heart thy loftiest self was set; thy fingers stretch o’er the earth’s broad back.

The stones do gnaw thee where the cow's hide lies, and they of vision milk thee in the waters with their hands.

So then, O drop, let those most bright and foremost press from thee thy sap of finest worth and fairest grace.

Thou, self-cleansing, shalt lay low each scorner; show forth thy storm-born strength—thy dearest rapture, rise and shine.