GLORIFY naught besides, O friends; so shall no sorrow trouble you.
Praise only mighty Indra when the juice is shed, and say your lauds repeatedly:
Even him, eternal, like a bull who rushes down, men’s Conqueror, bounteous like a cow;
Him who is cause of both, of enmity and peace, to both sides most munificent.
Although these men in sundry ways invoke thee to obtain thine aid,
Be this our prayer, addressed, O Indra, unto thee, thine exaltation every day.
Those skilled in song, O Maghavan among these men o’ercome with might the foeman’s songs.
Come hither, bring us strength in many a varied form most near that it may succour us.
O Caster of the Stone, I would not sell thee for a mighty price,
Not for a thousand, Thunderer! nor ten thousand, nor a hundred, Lord of countless wealth!
O Indra, thou art more to me than sire or niggard brother is.
Thou and my mother, O Good Lord, appear alike, to give me wealth abundantly.
Where art thou? Whither art thou gone? For many a place attracts thy mind.
Haste, Warrior, Fort-destroyer, Lord of battle’s din, haste, holy songs have sounded forth.
Sing out the psalm to him who breaks down castles for his faithful friend,
Verses to bring the Thunderer to destroy the forts and sit on Kaṇva's sacred grass.
The Horses which are thine in tens, in hundreds, yea, in thousands thine,
Even those vigorous Steeds, fleet-footed in the course, with those come quickly near to us.
This day I call Sabardughā who animates the holy song,
Indra the richly-yielding Milch-cow who provides unfailing food in ample stream.
When Sūra wounded Etaśa, with Vāta’s rolling winged car.
Indra bore Kutsa Arjuneya off, and mocked Gandharva the unconquered One.
He without ligature, before making incision in the neck,
Closed up the wound again, most wealthy Maghavan, who maketh whole the injured part.
May we be never cast aside, and strangers, as it were, to thee.
We, Thunder-wielding Indra, count ourselves as trees rejected and unfit to burn.
O Vṛtra-slayer, we were thought slow and unready for the fray.
Yet once in thy great bounty may we have delight, O Hero, after praising thee.
If he will listen to my laud, then may out Soma-drops that flow
Rapidly through the strainer gladden Indra, drops due to the Tugryas’ Strengthener.
Come now unto the common laud of thee and of thy faithful friend.
So may our wealthy nobles’ praise give joy to thee. Fain would I sing thine eulogy.
Press out the Soma with the stones, and in the waters wash it clean.
The men investing it with raiment made of milk shall milk it forth from out the stems.
Whether thou come from earth or from the lustre of the lofty heaven,
Wax stronger in thy body through my song of praise: fill full all creatures, O most Wise.
For India press the Soma out, most gladdening and most excellent.
May Sakra make it swell sent forth with every prayer and asking, as it were, for strength.
Let me not, still beseeching thee with earnest song at Soma rites,
Anger thee like some wild beast. Who would not beseech him who hath power to grant his prayer?
The draught made swift with rapturous joy, effectual with its mighty strength,
All-conquering, distilling transport, let him drink: for he in ecstasy gives us gifts.
Where bliss is not, may he, All-praised, God whom the pious glorify,
Bestow great wealth upon the mortal worshipper who sheds the juice and praises him.
Come, Indra, and rejoice thyself, O God, in manifold affluence.
Thou fillest like a lake thy vast capacious bulk with Soma and with draughts besides.
A thousand and a hundred Steeds are harnessed to thy golden car.
So may the long-maned Bays, yoked by devotion, bring Indra to drink the Soma juice.
Yoked to thy chariot wrought of gold, may thy two Bays with peacock tails,
Convey thee hither, Steeds with their white backs, to quaff sweet juice that makes us eloquent.
So drink, thou Lover of the Song, as the first drinker, of this juice.
This the outpouring of the savoury sap prepared is good and meet to gladden thee.
He who alone by wondrous deed is Mighty, Strong by holy works,
May he come, fair of cheek; may he not stay afar, but come and turn not from our call.
Śuṣṇa’s quick moving castle thou hast crushed to pieces with thy bolts.
Thou, Indra, from of old, hast followed after light, since we have had thee to invoke.
My praises when the Sun hath risen, my praises at the time of noon,
My praises at the coming of the gloom of night, O Vasu, have gone forth to thee.
Praise yea, praise him. Of princes these are the most liberal of their gifts,
These, Paramajya, Ninditasva, Prapathi, most bounteous, O Medhyatithi.
When to the car, by faith, I yoked the horses longing for the way —
For skilled is Yadu’s son in dealing precious wealth, he who is rich in herds of kine.
May he who gave me two brown steeds together with their cloths of gold,
May he, Āsaṅga's son Svanadratha, obtain all joy and high felicities.
Playoga’s son Āsaṅga, by ten thousand, O Agni, hath surpassed the rest in giving.
For me ten bright-hued oxen have come forward like lotus-stalks from out a lake upstanding.
What time her husband’s perfect restoration to his lost strength and manhood was apparent,
His consort Sasvati with joy addressed him, Now art thou well, my lord, and shalt be happy.
HERE is the Soma juice expressed; O Vasu, drink till thou art full:
Undaunted God, we give it thee.
Washed by the men, pressed out with stones, strained through the filter made of wool,
’Tis like a courser bathed in stream.
This juice have we made sweet for thee like barley, blending it with milk.
Indra, I call thee to our feast.
Beloved of all, Indra alone drinks up the flowing Soma juice
Among the Gods and mortal men.
The Friend, whom not the brilliant-hued, the badly-mixt or bitter draught,
Repels, the far-extending God;
While other men than we with milk chase him as hunters chase a deer,
And with their kine inveigle him.
For him, for Indra, for the God, be pressed three draughts of Soma juice
In the juice-drinker’s own abode.
Three reservoirs exude their drops, filled are three beakers to the brim,
All for one offering to the God.
Pure art thou, set in many a place, and blended in the midst with milk
And curd, to cheer the Hero best.
Here, Indra, are thy Soma-draughts pressed out by us, the strong, the pure:
They crave admixture of the milk.
O Indra, pour in milk, prepare the cake, and mix the Soma-draught.
I hear them say that thou art rich.
Quaffed juices fight within the breast. The drunken praise not by their wine,
The naked praise not when it rains.
Rich be the praiser of one rich, munificent and famed like thee:
High rank be his, O Lord of Bays.
Foe of the man who adds no milk, he heeds not any chanted hymn
Or holy psalm that may he sung.
Give us not, Indra, as a prey unto the scornful or the proud:
Help, Mighty One, with power and might.
This, even this, O Indra, we implore as thy devoted friends,
The Kaṇvas praise thee with their hymns.
Naught else, O Thunderer, have I praised in the skilled singer’s eulogy:
On thy land only have I thought.
The Gods seek him who presses out the Soma; they desire not sleep.
They punish sloth unweariedly.
Come hither swift with gifts of wealth — be not thou angry with us —
like A great man with a youthful bride.