Run thou forth about the cask; be seated; and, cleansed by men's hands, haste thee to the prize.
As one groometh a steed meet for the crown, so they lead thee by reins to the sacred grass.

He, the well-armed god, the drop, doth purify himself— he smiteth the curse, he shieldeth the folk; sire and begetter of the gods, full of cunning craft, pillar of the heavens, upholder of the earth.

Seer, soul-fired singer, walking before the folk, a wise-handed smith like unto Ṛbhus, yea, like Uśanā in song— he alone found what lay hid of theirs: the secret, veiled name of the kine.

This very one, sweet Soma, hath streamed for thee, O Indra— bull unto bull—round the sieve’s rim.

Thousand-winner, hundred-winner, great-giver, the prize-taker mounteth the sacred grass evermore.

These draughts of Soma have surged forth toward the thousand-fold herds, toward shout and cheer, for the high deathless reward— purified through the strainer like steeds chasing glory into fray.

For, oft-called of the tribes, he hath flowed through all feeds and fattenings while he is cleansed— now bring forth delight, O falcon-fetched one! Drive out wealth, and fly swift to the prize.

This Soma, being pressed, the steed like a wave outpoured, hath sped through the filter, sharpening his horns like a wild buffalo, on a kine-hunt toward cattle, like a champion in arms.

From the breast of the highest stone she fared— she found the kine that were held in the pen.

Like levin from sky with thunder of cloud, the stream of Soma cleanseth itself for thee, O Indra.

And now, in thy cleansing, O Soma, thou drivest about the herd of kine in one chariot with Indra, and through many a lofty draught—thou of the lively drops.
Put forth thy strength, O mighty one; these are thy songs of summoning.