A BAD SIGN.

During a late calling out of the North Somerset yeomanry, at Bath, the

service of one of them, a “Batcome boy,” was enlivened by a visit from

his sweetheart; after escorting her over the city, and being fatigued

with showing her what she had “ne’er zeed in all her life,” he knocked

loudly at the door of a house in the Crescent, against which a hatchment

was placed, and on the appearance of the powdered butler, boldly ordered

“two glasses of scalded wine, as hot as thee canst make it.” The man,

staring, informed him he could have no scalded wine there--’twas no

public-house. “Then dose thee head,” replied Somerset, “what’st hang out

thik there zign var.”

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