LORD of the path, O Pūṣan, we have yoked and bound thee to our hymn, Even as a car, to win the prize.

Bring us the wealth that men require, a manly master of a house, free-handed with the liberal meed.

Even him who would not give, do thou, O glowing Pūṣan, urge to give, and make the niggard's soul grow soft.

Clear paths that we may win the prize; scatter our enemies afar.

Strong Deva, be all our thoughts fulfilled.

Penetrate with an awl, O Sage, the hearts of avaricious churls, and make them subject to our will.

Thrust with thine awl, O Pūṣan: seek that which the niggard's heart holds dear, and make him subject to our will.

Tear up and read in pieces, Sage, the hearts of avaricious churls, and make them subject to our will.

Thou, glowing Pūṣan, carriest an awl that urges men to prayer; Therewith do thou tear up and rend to shreds the heart of every one.

Thou bearest, glowing Lord! a goad with horny point that guides the cows Thence do we seek thy gift of bliss.

And make this hymn of ours produce kine, horses, and a store of wealth For our delight and use as men.