These soma-draughts have flowed unto Indra’s longing, uplifting his might and the boldness of his arm.

Cleansed they are, finding their stead in the beakers, hastening to Vāyu and the twin horse-lords; may they grant us gallant strength.

O Soma, stir the soul of Indra to give freely, as thou art made pure to rest upon the womb of truth.

Ten fingers do tend thee; seven wise thoughts drive thee onward.
The god-breath’d singers have urged thee with cheer.

For the joy of the gods, for their rapture, thee, who art rushing through the ewes, do we array in kine as raiment.

In the washing-vats made clean, he, gold-hued and red,
hath clad himself in the garb of kine.

Draw hither to us free-handed givers by thy cleansing.
Smite down all spite.
O drop, go thou unto thy friend.

Rain down the sky’s wetness and heaven’s shining from the earth below.
Grant us strength for the fray, O Soma.

Let us have our portion in thee—
who drawest eyes of men, who art quaffed by Indra, who findest the sun— and a share in kin and delight.