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.
Let him not, wrathful with us, spend the evening far from us to-day, Like some unpleasant son-in-law.
For well we know this Hero's love, most liberal of the boons he gives, His plans whom the three worlds display.
Pour forth the gift which Kaṇvas bring, for none more glorious do we know Than the Strong Lord with countless aids.
O presser, offer Soma first to Indra, Hero, Śakra, him The Friend of man, that he may drink;
Who, in untroubled ways, is best provider, for his worshippers. Of strength in horses and in kine.
Pressers, for him blend Soma juice, each draught most excellent, for him The Brave, the Hero, for his joy.
The Vṛtra-slayer drinks the juice. May he who gives a hundred aids Approach, nor stay afar from us.
May the strong Bay Steeds, yoked by prayer, bring hither unto us our Friend, Lover of Song, renowned by songs.
Sweet are the Soma juices, come! Blent are the Soma juices, come! Ṛṣi-like, mighty, fair of cheek, come hither quickly to the feast.
And lauds which strengthen thee for great bounty and valour, and exalt Indra who doeth glorious deeds,
And songs to thee who lovest song, and all those hymns addressed to thee- These evermore confirm thy might.
Thus he, sole doer of great deeds whose hand holds thunder, gives us strength, He who hath never been subdued.
Vṛtra he slays with his right hand, even Indra, great with mighty power, And much-invoked in many a place.
He upon whom all men depend, all regions, all achievements, he Takes pleasure in our wealthy chiefs.
All this hath he accomplished, yea, Indra, most gloriously renowned, Who gives our wealthy princes strength.
Who drives his chariot seeking spoil, from afar, to him he loves: For swift is he to bring men wealth.
The Sage who, winning spoil with steeds, slays Vṛtra, Hero with the men, His servant's faithful succourer.
O Priyamedhas, worship with collected mind this Indra whom The Soma hath full well inspired.
Ye Kaṇvas, sing the Mighty One, Lord of the Brave, who loves renown, All-present, glorified by song.
Strong Friend, who, with no trace of feet, restores the cattle to the men, Who rest their wish and hope on him.
Shaped as a Ram, Stone-hurler I once thou camest hither to the son Of Kaṇva, wise Medhyātithi.
Vibhindu, thou hast helped this man, giving him thousands four times ten, And afterward eight thousand more.
And these twain pouring streams of milk, creative, daughters of delight, For wedlock sake I glorify.
