Let us gather, friends, and recount the glory of Indra, the mighty leader of horses, the one whose praise is ever new. With his unmatched strength, Indra lifts our voices in song, never letting us fall into defeat. Yearning for renown, we call upon him—the lord of strength—who is ever increased by unfailing sacrifices. Now, let us raise our praises to Indra, the heroic one, the man worthy of song, who alone has overcome countless hosts. May our words be offered to him, the seeker of cows, the strong and radiant one, and may our speech be sweeter than clarified butter and honey. His deeds cannot be measured, and his bounty knows no equal; like light, his generosity pervades all things. Indra, with the face of a horse, the rushing wave, the winner of prizes, the restrainer—he grants life to the Arya and exalts the worshipper. So let us also honor the wise and praiseworthy tenth and ninth Vaiyasva, leaders among singers. For Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt, knows the paths of destruction and, day by day, clears the way as if erasing footprints. Whoever presses the Soma conquers fullness itself. The Soma-presser, through worship, removes the hatred of the gods and all enmity, desiring a thousand-fold reward filled with strength. Indra, in his generosity, grants abundant wealth to the presser. May we never lose those manly glories, nor the ancient splendors and fame of our ancestors. Whatever is wondrous and ever new, immortal in its sound, may the Maruts grant it to us, and may they support us in all that is hard to overcome. We honor Agni, the priest—generous, wealthy, the son of strength, wise in all births. Upright in his own rites, with divine compassion, he follows the flow of clarified butter, his flame bright at the offering. Adorned with speckled steeds, shining in their ornaments, the beloved ones approach the sacred grass. O sons of Bharata, drink the Soma from the cup, O men of heaven. Come, O gods, O wise ones—worship here. Hotar, take your place in the three seats. Approach the poured-out Soma, drink the honeyed offering from the Agnidh’s share, and satisfy your thirst for your portion. This is the strength of your body, O gods—increasing manliness, power, and vigor—placed in your arms in the sky. For you, O Maghavan, the Soma is pressed, brought forth for your delight as the Brahman’s gift. The one we have called before, we call again—let him be invoked, the renowned giver. Drink the honeyed Soma, poured out by the priests, O Soma-giver, with the seasons. We offer day by day to the beautiful-formed one, as one milks a cow rich in milk, pouring out our offerings for favor. Come, Indra, to our Soma-pressings and drink the Soma, O Soma-drinker; here is the delight of the cows, O lord of wealth. May we know the fullness of your gracious favors—do not go far from us, come near. Go beyond the contest and seek the wise Indra, who grants favor to his friends. Let our praises be spoken and spread from every side—Indra, grant us your gifts. May the blessed speak well of us, and the wondrous peoples praise us; may we dwell in Indra’s protection. Bring to the swift and mighty the glory of sacrifice, a delight for men, as a friend who brings joy. Having drunk this Soma, O hundred-powered one, you became the slayer of foes and led the strong in contests. We urge you, strong in contests, in our battles, O Indra, for the gaining of wealth. He is the protector of great riches, the mighty helper, the friend of the Soma-presser—sing to that Indra. Come, sit here, and let us praise Indra; friends, bring forth your hymns. Indra, most bountiful of the bountiful, lord of treasures, may you be present at the Soma-pressing. May you come to us with aid, bringing wealth and abundant gifts, approaching with your banners. Where you are established, Indra, the two bays are never withheld, and in battle, enemies never prevail—sing to that Indra. For the drinker of the pressed, these pure Somas bring delight, their heads crowned with curd. For the drinking of Soma, you were instantly born grown, Indra, wise one, for supremacy. May the invigorating Somas, O lover of song, fill you with joy, O wise one. Hymns have magnified you, praises have exalted you, O hundred-powered one; may our songs increase your greatness. May Indra, of inexhaustible bounty, grant us the prize of a thousand, where all manly powers reside. O Indra, lover of song, let no mortal assail us; as our lord, keep slaughter far from our bodies. They yoke the spotted, ruddy one, circling those who stand; the lights shine in the sky. They yoke his beloved two bays, with unequal sides, to the chariot—the red, bold, man-carrying steeds. You, Indra, made a sign for the unseeing, a form for the unformed, and were born together with the shining ones. They rekindled themselves, following their nature, longing to return to the womb and upholding the sacrificial name. Even what was hidden, O Indra, you tore away with your acts and your fires; following their tracks, you found the cows. Thus, with reverence and joy, do we celebrate the wondrous deeds and boundless generosity of Indra, the mighty, the wise, the ever-victorious.