O Hero, lordliest of all, who hast come alone From a distant, most secluded place?
Where are thy horses, where the reins? How didst thou arrive? What power didst thou possess? Thy whip rests on the flank, heroes stretch their thighs apart, Like women when the child is born.
Go ye, O Heroes, far away, ye newly wedded ones with a lovely bride, That ye may warm yourselves by the fire.
May she gain cattle as her reward, hundreds of sheep and steeds and kine, Who embraced the hero praised by gyavaiva.
Yea, many a woman is firmer and better than the man who turns Away from gods and offers naught.
Yet, many a one, unpraised and mean-neglected, is still deemed a man: Only in weregild doth he stand so.
And she, the young and joyful, revealed the path to Śyāva, indeed to me. Two red steeds bore me to Purumīlha's side, that sage of far-reaching fame,
Him who, like Vaidadasvi, like Taranta, has bestowed on me A hundred cows in generous gift.
Those borne by swift steeds, drinking the mead that brings delight, Have attained great glory here.
They whose brilliance lights up both realms, shining on chariots, As gold gleams above in heaven.
That Marut band is ever young, borne on bright cars, blameless, Moving to victory, unchecked.
Who knoweth truly, of these where the All-shakers find delight, Born spotless, after sacred Law?
Guides are ye, lovers of song to mortal man through holy hymns, And hearers when he cries for help.
Do ye, destroyers of foes, worshipful and exceedingly bright, Send down the treasures we crave.
Ourmya, bear thou far away to Darbhya this my praise, Songs, Goddess, as if chariot-borne.
From me to Rathaviti say, when he presses the Soma juice, My wish shall not depart.
This wealthy Rathaviti dwells among the people rich in kine, Among the mountains, far withdrawn.
From me to Rathaviti say, when he hath pressed the Soma juice,