Hear the yellow dinner bells, In hotels―― How pleasant to the tympanum of all the hungry swells, How it conjures to the eye Happy dreams of pigeon pie, And gorgeous _table d’hotes_, Coming soon; And swimming butter boats, And turtle soup that glistens as it floats In the spoon: Now rising from the dish Comes the odour of the fish, How it smells, and it tells Why the eye so brightly glistens, and the ear so fondly listens For the bells, For the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The rousing to carousing by the bells. Hear those clanging iron bells, Railway bells. What a page of accidents their dissonance foretels, As we thunder o’er the river How the nervous ladies shiver, How they groan. And the stoker, ah, the stoker, He who wields the mighty poker, All alone. And who, like a thing of evil, Sits undaunted on his throne, As if he knew the devil Would be careful of his own (It has often been remarked that he is careful of his own.) The engine is a pyre, The poker is his lyre, And he joins in ghastly cadence with the demons of the fire (Perhaps you’re not aware that there are demons in the fire) They rush across the fells Through the forests and the dells, And echo goblin choruses in answer to the bells, Ringing knells for the swells, With the bells, With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The rasping, and the grasping of the bells. _Zoz_, October 26, 1878. ――――:o:―――― THE BILLS. E. A. POE-TICS FOR THE SEASON.