O Soma, being well-pressed, flow thou round for Indra’s sake.
Let all affliction pass away, and every devilish craft be driven out.
Let not the double-hearted draw nigh to thy gladdening sap; but let the wealth-bearing drops be gathered here.

Stir us forth into the fray, O self-cleansing one; for thou art the craft of the gods, their cherished and rousing draught.

Break the foe asunder; come unto them that crave thy grace.
Drink thou, Indra, of the Soma—lay low the proud for our sake.

Thou, unfoolable, dost cleanse thyself as most gladsome; thou becomest the very breath of Indra, fountain of height.

The seers of kindled thought cry aloud unto thee; they seek the King of this shaped world.

With a thousand runlets and a hundred streams, the unerring drop— the sweet-desired honey—purifieth itself for Indra.

Gaining a dwelling, winning the waters, speed thou on; make for us a broad and open path, O Soma the Giver of Reward.

Ever roaring, thou art poured with kine into the vat; thou rushest o’er the fleece of sheep in one great flood.

Like a steed groomed for victory, ever tended, O Soma, thou hast wholly flowed into Indra’s belly.

Cleanse thyself, sweet to the heavenly host, sweet to Indra whose name is pleasant upon the tongue, sweet to Mitra, to Varuṇa, to Vāyu and to Bṛhaspati— thou honeyed one who canst not be beguiled.

The ten fingers groom the courser in the vat; the thoughts and songs of seers press boldly forth.

Being made pure, they hasten to the fair-sung hymn; the joy-bringing drops pass into Indra.

Wash thyself pure and speed to the haunts of heroes, to broad pastures, to vast and ample refuge.

Let no tight hold constrain this Soma of ours.
With thee, O drop, may we win prize on prize.

The wide-seeing Bull hath mounted to the sky; the poet hath made the shining courts of heaven to blaze.

The king goeth ever bellowing through the filter; they that bear man’s eye draw the milk of heaven for themselves.

In the roof of the sky the seekers milk the honey-tongued, never-spent streams from the Ox that dwelleth on the mount— the drop that waxeth strong in the waters and the deep, the honeyed one in the river’s swell, in the sieve.

The eagle that soared to the vault above— him the many songs of the seekers did long for.

The thoughts do lick the babe of wonder evermore— the golden bird that standeth upon the earth.

The Gandharva hath taken his stand upon the vault, beholding all his forms in their glory.

Light hath leapt forth in a blaze of splendour; the burning one hath made the two world-mothers to shine.