EVEN as a King hath Soma, red and tawny Bull, been pressed: the Wondrous One hath bellowed to the kine. While purified he passes through the filtering fleece to seat him hawk-like on the place that drops with oil.
To glory goest thou, Sage with disposing skill, like a groomed steed thou rusbest forward to the prize. O Soma, be thou gracious, driving off distress: thou goest, clothed in butter, to a robe of state.
Parjanya is the Father of the Mighty Bird: on mountains, in earth's centre hath he made his home. The waters too have flowed, the Sisters, to the kine: he meets the pressing-stones at the beloved rite.
Thou givest pleasure as a wife delights her lord. Listen, O Child of Pajri, for to thee I speak. Amid the holy songs go on that we may live: in time of trouble, Soma, watch thou free from blame.
As to the men of old thou camest, Indu unharmed, to strengthen, winning hundreds, thousands, So now for new felicity flow onward: the waters follow as thy law ordaineth.
