BRING us a thousand, Indra, as our guerdon for the Soma juice: Hundreds of kine, O Hero, bring.
Bring cattle, bring us ornament, bring us embellishment and steeds, Give us, besides, two rings of gold.
And, Bold One, bring in ample store rich jewels to adorn the ear, For thou, Good Lord, art far renowned.
None other is there for the priest, Hero! but thou, to give him gifts, To win much spoil and prosper him.
Indra can never be brought low, Śakra can never be subdued: He heareth and beholdeth all.
He spieth out the wrath of man, he who can never be deceived: Ere blame can come he marketh it.
He hath his stomach full of might, the Vṛtra-slayer, Conqueror, The Soma-drinker, ordering all.
In thee all treasures are combined, Soma all blessed things in thee, Uninjured, easy to bestow.
To thee speeds forth my hope that craves the gift of corn, and kine and gold, Yea, craving horses, speeds to thee.
Indra, through hope in thee alone even this sickle do I grasp. Fill my hand, Maghavan, with all that it can hold of barley cut or gathered up.
