SING to the troop that pours down rain in common, the Mighty Company of celestial nature. They make the world-halves tremble with their greatness: from depths of earth and sky they reach to heaven.
Yea, your birth, Maruts, was with wild commotion, ye who move swiftly, fierce in wrath, terrific. Ye all-surpassing in your might and vigour, each looker on the light fears at your coming.
Give ample vital power unto our princes let our fair praises gratify the Maruts. As the way travelled helpeth people onward, so further us with your delightful succours.
Your favoured singer counts his wealth by hundreds: the strong steed whom ye favour wins a thousand. The Sovran whom ye aid destroys the foeman. May this your gift, ye Shakers, be distinguished.
I call, as such, the Sons of bounteous Rudra: will not the Maruts turn again to us-ward? What secret sin or open stirs their anger, that we implore the Swift Ones to forgive us.
This eulogy of the Bounteous hath been spoken: accept, ye Maruts, this our hymn of praises. Ye Bulls, keep those who hate us at a distance. Preserve us evermore, ye Gods, with blessings.
