Loud singers, unyielding, strong, full of vigor, unshakable, fierce, most noble, most beloved, They adorned themselves with shining ornaments, a small group only, like the sky with stars.
When, Maruts, you heap up the moving clouds on the slopes, you are like birds wherever they fly. Clouds pour rain upon their chariots everywhere. Pour down sweetness, honey-sweet, for him who praises you.
The earth trembles as if weak and worn when they yoke their chariots for victory on their tracks. Sportive and roaring loudly, armed with gleaming spears, they admire their might.
That youthful band, with spotted horses, moves self-advancing; it has lordly sway, endowed with power and might. True and blameless, seeker of sin, you, Strong Host, will protect this prayer.
We speak through our descent from our ancient Father; our tongue, seeing Soma, becomes stirred. When, shouting, they join Indra in the battle, then only do they earn their sacrificial names.
They gain splendor for glory, those wearing bright bands; they obtain rays and make men sing their praise. Armed with their swords, fierce and fearless, they possess the beloved home of the Maruts.