Diné

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

[B]red to war, / He knew the battle’s din afar, / And joyed to hear it swell.

How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town:

The patter of feet, and clatter of strap and swivel, seemed to swell into a bewildering din, but they were almost upon the fielato offices, where the carretera entered the town, before a rifle flashed.

So many faces Clive had never seen by daylight, and looking terrible, like cadavers jerked upright to welcome the newly dead. Invigorated by this jolt of misanthropy, he moved sleekly through the din, ignored his name when it was called, withdrew his elbow when it was plucked [...]

England certainly made a mockery of the claim that they might somehow be intimidated by the Glasgow din. Celtic Park was a loud, seething pit of bias.

1820, William Wordsworth, “The Waggoner” Canto 2, in The Miscellaneous Poems of William Wordsworth, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme & Brown, Volume 2, p. 21, For, spite of rumbling of the wheels, A welcome greeting he can hear;— It is a fiddle in its glee Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!

My confused senses received a dull roar of pounding feet and dinning voices as the herald of victory.