And, though they bend their sinewy necks
'Till red with their crimson gore,
And fiercely strain yoke, pole, and chain
With savage, muttering roar,
The wheels sank down to the axle-tree—
Through the hard baked clay they tore,
And a single jot from out that spot
They shifted never more.
Then the shepherd called to the drivers, "Ho!
My frugal meal partake."