This draught-steed hath poured forth upon the ways; like rain from the high heavens, the self-cleansing one doth run.

With a thousand streams he sitteth now beside us, in his mother’s lap and amidst the wood—yea, Soma.

The king of rivers hath clothed himself in raiment; he hath embarked upon the straightest ship of truth.

The drop, sent flying by the falcon, waxeth strong in the waters.
His father yieldeth him as milk, and he in turn bringeth forth his father’s seed.

They draw nigh to the lion of honey, unbound— the tawny and red-hued lord of this heaven.

The champion, foremost in strife, demandeth the kine for himself; the young bull guardeth them all with his watchful gaze.

The dread, unbridled horse with honeyed back they yoke— that lofty one—to the chariot of wide-spread wheels.

His sisters and kin make him fair; those born of the same cord uphold the prize-winner.

Four, set upon one common base, yield butter as their milk and follow him.
They hasten, cleansed with worship; the many throng him round on every side.

He is the uphold of heaven, the stay of the earth; and all abodes lie within his grasp.

Thy wellspring shall gift steeds to the song-raiser; the honey-rich herb maketh itself clean for Indra's might.

O Soma, thou that smitest and art not smitten, purify thyself for Indra, to chase after the gods.

Take hold of wealth vast and full of gleam; may we be lords of heroes in goodly number.