STREWN is the sacred grass; come Soma, to our feast, with team of thousands, come, Lord of the harnessed team, with hundreds, Lord of harnessed steeds! The drops divine are lifted up for thee, to drink them first.

The juices rich in sweets have raised them for thy joy, have raised themselves to give thee strength.

Purified by the stones the Soma flows for thee, clothed with its lovely splendours, to the reservoir, flows clad in its refulgent light. For thee the Soma is poured forth, thy portioned share mid Devas and men. Drive thou thy horses, Soma, come to us with love, come well-inclined and loving us.

Come thou with hundreds, come with thousands in thy team to this our solemn rite, to taste the sacred food, Soma, to taste the offerings. This is thy seasonable share, that comes co-radiant with the Sun. Brought by attendant monks pure juice is offered up, Soma, pure juice is offered up.

The chariot with its team of horses bring you both, to guard us and to taste the well-appointed food, Soma, to taste the offerings! Drink of the pleasant-flavoured juice: the first draught is assigned to you. O Soma, with your splendid bounty come ye both, Indra, with bounty come ye both.

May our songs bring you hither to our solemn rites: these drops of mighty vigour have they beautified, like a swift steed of mighty strength. Drink of them well-inclined to us, come hitherward to be our help. Drink, Indra and Soma, of these Juices pressed with stones, Strength-givers! till they gladden you.

These Soma juices pressed for you in waters here, borne by attendant monks, are offered up to you: bright, Soma, are they offered up. Swift through the strainer have they flowed, and here are shed for both of you, Soma-drops, fain for you, over the wether's fleece, Somas over the wether's fleece.

O Soma, pass thou over all the slumberers, and where the press-stone rings enter ye both that house, yea, Indra, go ye both within. The joyous Maiden is beheld, the butter flows. With richly laden team come to our solemn rite, yea, Indra, come ye to the rite.

Ride hither to the offering of the pleasant juice, the holy Fig-tree which victorious monks surround: victorious be they still for us. At once the cows yield milk, the barley-meal is dressed. For thee, O Soma, never shall the cows grow thin, never for thee shall they be dry.

These Bulls of thine, O Soma with the arm of strength, who swiftly fly within the current of thy stream, the Bulls increasing in their might, Horseless, yet even through the waste swift-moving, whom no shout can stay, Hard to be checked are they, like sunbeams, in their course. hard to be checked by both the hands.