O shining Drop, stream unto us the hoard desired of many, that peerless wealth which beareth a thousand gifts, that blaze of might which overmastereth even the noble and renowned.
Pressed and girded in the soft sheep-fleece, thou art as the warrior who buckleth on bright mail within his chariot; driven by the wooden paddle, thou flowest abroad in leaping rills.
Thus stirred, thou windest about the woolly veil, awakened to rapture; erect at the rite, thou farest forth for kine as Agni for his fuel, thy current a seeking flame.
For thou, O godly Juice, art treasure to every devout man; thou makest quest for riches by the thousand, wealth of a hundred shapes.
Grant that we draw nigh unto thy bounties, coveted of multitudes, O noble Vr̥tra-smasher—nearest to thy refreshment, nearest to thy favour, thou whose plenty never faileth.
Self-resplendent art thou, bruised beneath the twin-wielded stones, laved by the twice five sister-streams; dear unto Indra, wave-filled and wondrous sweet.
This gladsome, tawny-bright One they cleanse on every side with the fleece, he that circleth all the gods in company with his heart-uplifting draught.
By his aid the immortals quaff the potion that turneth skill to deed, the joy-giver who hath set high renown among your patrons even as the sun is set on high in heaven.
From you twain, O world-halves, ye goddess-presses yet kind to mortal men, is this Mountain-dwelling God new-born in holy rites; with loud acclaim I hymn him without fail.
O Soma, thou art poured for Indra, the smiter of Vr̥tra, for the noble giver who bestoweth gifts on priests, and for the god who sitteth upon the sacred seat.
Age-old streams of thee have rushed into the filter at dawn’s first breaking, snorting afar the crooked-minded and the witless while yet the morning is young.
Comrades, may we and ye—our fostering patrons—win that shining One who standeth before us with prizes to be claimed; may we secure the lord whose dwelling overflows with gifts.