SING ye a song, to make him glad, to Indra, Lord of Tawny Steeds, Soma, O my friends.

To him the Bounteous say the laud, and let us glorify, as men May do, the Giver of true gifts.

O Indra, Lord of boundless might, for us thou winnest strength and kine, Thou winnest gold for us, Good Lord.

Faithful to thee we loudly sing, heroic Indra, songs to thee: Mark, O Indra, this act of ours.

Give us not up to man's reproach, to foeman's hateful calumny: In thee alone is all my strength.

Thou art mine ample coat of mail, my Champion, Vṛtra-Slayer, thou: With thee for Friend I brave the foe.

Yea, great art thou whose conquering might two independent Powers confess.

The Heaven, O India, and the Earth.

So let the voice surround thee, which attends the Devas on their way, Reaching thee with the rays of light.

Let the ascending drops attain to thee, the Wondrous Deva, in Heaven: Let all the folk bow down to thee.

Bring to the Wise, the Great, who waxeth mighty, your offerings, and make ready your devotion; To many clans he goeth, man's controller.

For Indra, the sublime, the far-pervading, have singers generated prayer and praises: The sages never violate his statutes.

The choirs have stablished Indra King forever, for victory, him whose anger is resistless: And, for the Bays' Lord, strengthened those he loveth.