With lowered heads the others "bore"
And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;
And with a hollow muttered roar
Pour in those horned hosts!
Those posts are fourteen inches through—
They creak, and groan, and tremble too,
Before that pouring rush!
They're in at last, the gates are shut;
And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,
A calm nocturnal hush.