THAT Indra is our youthful Friend, who with his trusty guidance led Turvaśa, Yadu from afar.
Even to the dull and uninspired Indra, gives vital power, and wins Even with slow steed the offered prize.
Great are his ways of guiding us, andṅanilbld are Ins eulogies: His kind protections never fail.
Friends, sing your psalm and offer praise to him to whom the prayer is brought: For our great Providence is he.
Thou, Slaughterer of Vṛtra, art Guardian and Friend of one and two, Yea, of a man like one of us.
Beyond men's hate thou leadest us, and givest cause to sing thy praise: Good hero art thou called by men.
I call with hymns, as ’twere a cow to milk, the Friend who merits praise, The Brahman who accepts the prayer.
Him in whose hands they say are stored all treasures from the days of old, The Hero, conquering in the fight.
Lord of Strength, Caster of the Stone, destroy the firm forts built by men, And foil their arts, unbending God!
Thee, thee as such, O Lord of Power, O Indra, Soma-drinker, true, We, fain for glory, have invoked.
Such as thou wast of old, and art now to be called on when the prize lies ready, listen to our call.
With hymns and coursers we will gain, Indra, through thee, both steeds and spoil Most glorious, and the proffered prize.
Thou, Indra, Lover of the Song, whom men must stir to help, hast been Great in the contest for the prize.
Slayer of foes, whatever aid of thine imparts the swiftest course, With that impel our car to speed.
As skilfullest of those who drive the chariot, with our art and aim, O Conqueror, win the proffered prize.
Praise him who, Matchless and Alone, was born the Lord of living men, Most active, with heroic soul.
Thou who hast been the singers' Friend, a Friend auspicious with thine aid, As such, O Indra, favour us.
Grasp in thine arms the thunderbolt, O Thunder-armed, to slay the fiends: Mayst thou subdue the foemen's host.
I call the ancient Friend, allied with wealth, who speeds the lowly man, Him to whom chiefly prayer is brought.
For he alone is Lord of all the treasures of the earth: he speeds Hither, chief Lover of the Song.
So with thy yoked teams satisfy our wish with power and wealth in steeds And cattle, boldly, Lord of kine!
Sing this, what time the ' juice is pressed, to him your Hero, Much-invoked, To please him as a mighty Steer.
He, Excellent, withholdeth not his gift of power and wealth in kine, When he hath listened to our songs.
May he with might unclose for us the cow's stall, whosesoe’er it be, To which the Dasyu-slayer goes.
O Indra Śatakratu, these our songs have called aloud to thee, Like mother cows to meet their calves.
Hard is thy love to win: thou art a Steer to him who longs for steers: Be to one craving steeds a Steed.
Delight thee with the juice we pour for thine own great munificence: Yield not thy singer to reproach.
These songs with every draught we pour come, Lover of the Song, to thee, As milch-kine hasten to their young
To thee most oft invoked, amid the many singers' rivalry Who beg with all their might for wealth.
Nearest and most attractive may our laud, O Indra come to thee. Urge thou us on to ample wealth.
Brbu hath set himself above the Paṇis, o’er their highest head, Like the wide bush on Gan!gā's bank.
He whose good bounty, thousandfold, swift as the rushing of the wind, Suddenly offers as a gift.
So all our singers ever praise the pious Brbu's noble deed, Chief, best to give his thousands, best to give a thousand liberal gifts.
