Foremost captain and champion, fronting the thundering cars, goeth abroad in quest of kine; his whole array quivereth with eager fire. To prosper Indra’s summons for his comrades, Soma clotheth himself in ravishing attire.

The russet fingers together curry his tawny steed without surcease, with reverent strokes that drive the courser on. Indra’s mate ascendeth the chariot; the All-knowing guideth with him unto the citadel of good intent.

Be thou made pure, O god, for the conclave of gods, for sovereign delight—Soma, beloved draught of Indra. As thou art strained, fashion the waters and bid this heaven to rain; from the vast expanse win for us a widening room.

For safety from overthrow and rescue from assault, cleanse thyself; for weal, for lofty wholeness. Such is the longing of these thy companions, such is my own desire, O self-purging Soma.

Soma cleanseth himself—the begetter of poet-thought, the begetter of heaven and of earth, the father of Agni, the father of the Sun, the father of Indra, and the father of Vishnu.

Framer for the gods, path-breaker for sage singers, seer of the inspired, wild buffalo among beasts, falcon among birds of prey, axe among forest trees—Soma raspeth through the sieve.

Like a river’s wave, self-purifying Soma hath sent forth the surge of speech—hymns and inspired imaginings. Gazing within, he over-mounteth these tribes below, bull among the cows, discerning every host.

Exhilarant, conquering in battle yet unconquered, thousand-jetting—rush thou to the prize. Be thou strained for Indra, O drop; as inspired sage, lift a surge from the herb and drive the cattle home.

Dear unto gods, the sought-for Soma roves about the vat, delight of Indra’s mirth; the drop of thousand streams and hundred prizes speedeth like a victor team to the gatherings.

Primal in birth, finding treasure even as he is born, groomed in the waters, milked upon the stone, warding off curses, king of creation—so, while he is strained, he traceth the path of sacred utterance.

Forasmuch as our far-seeing fathers wrought their rites with thee, O self-cleansing Soma, break thou the bars; lay foes low, thyself unshaken, and be to us a giver of heroes and of steeds.

Even as of old for Manu thou wast refined—life-bringer, foe-smasher, opener of wide places with the offering—so now be thou made pure, bestowing wealth. Stand shoulder to shoulder with Indra and forge us weapons.

Purify thyself, honey-rich Soma, follower of truth, arrayed in waters upon the sheep’s bright back. Sit in the butter-filled cups as the most gladsome draught for Indra.

With a hundred streams be cleansed into heaven’s rain—thousand-winning, god-ward aspiring, bellowing with the rivers in the vat beside the ruddy kine, lengthening our days.

This very Soma, strained by poet-thought, outstrippeth enmity like a prize stallion loosed. As milk from Aditi, he is heartening, broad as a highway, obedient as a docile steed.

Armed full well and pressed by the singers, haste to the dear hidden Name and to the spoil, like a famed racing team—speed to Vāyu, to the herds, O divine Soma.

The newborn colt, the delectable, they curry; the Maruts in throng bedeck the car-horse. Though a poet by song and by craft, Soma raspeth across the filter.

Seer-minded, maker of seers, sun-seizing, thousand-crafted, path-finder for bards, buffalo striving for the third realm—Soma, as the drum-beat of metre, ruleth the virāj by due measure.

Seated in the cups, the falcon wide-winged, the cow-seeking drop, grasping weapons, riding the water’s billow, the buffalo proclaimeth the sea to be the fourth domain.

Like a shining youth adorning his limbs, like a charger running for the stakes, he whirls about the cask as a bull about his herds; ever roaring he hath leapt into the twin bowls.

Cleanse thyself, O drop, in thy mighty virtue; ever roaring, wheel round the fleeces. Sporting, enter the double cups in thy clarity; let thy rousing sap uplift Indra.

His lofty jets are sent surging forth. Anointed with kine he hath plunged into the vats. Chanting the Sāman, intent upon song, keen for poet-rapture, bellowing he fareth as to a sister beloved.

Thrusting rivals aside, self-purging one, thou goest like a swain toward his dear, sung drop. Nesting in the wood like a swift-winged bird, Soma, refined, hath settled in the tubs.

As thou art strained, O Soma, thy beams draw nigh like a maid—good milkers pouring fair streams. The dappled bay, dispenser of many a boon, led into the waters, hath roared within the vessel of the god-seekers.