This, even this, O Indra, we implore: as thy devoted friends, The Kanvas praise thee with their hymns.
Naught else, O Thunderer, have I praised in the skilled singer's eulogy: On thy laud only have I thought.
The Gods seek him who presses out the Soma; they desire not sleep: Incessantly they punish sloth.
Faithful to thee we loudly sing, heroic Indra, songs to thee. Mark, gracious Lord, this act of ours.
Give us not up to man's reproach, to foeman's hateful calumny: In thee alone is all my strength.
Thou art mine ample coat of mail, my champion, Vritra-slayes, thou. With thee for Friend I brave the foe.
