"'Why, your honor, these here sky-larking players gets half-a-dozen old muskets, two or three fowling-pieces, and a pair-and-a-half of pistols, with half a pound of powder in a paper, and they calls it the Battle of Waterloo--gammoning Bill Sykes and me to put on a lobster's jacket apiece, and fire, off two o' these 'ere muskets, what an old one-eyed purser in a corner had been loading with a 'bacca pipe full o' powder. Well, Bill Sykes, and I, and Joe Brown, and six more, were the British army; and opposite us was some six or eight land-lubbers, a hacting the Mounseers. The skipper of the show people told us, when we'd squibbed off our muskets over the Mounseers' heads, to retire backerds, as if retreating from the French. In course, this here was hard work for jack tars what had sarved their country for twenty years, to be told to run away from half-a-dozen land-lubbers a pretending to be French. Well, it war'nt o' no use kicking up a row then, but at night, Bill Sykes and I argufied the matter over a can o' grog, and we concluded not to disgrace our flag, but to stand up for the honor of Old England. Well, when the scrimmage begun, the land-lubbers called out to us to retreat. 'See you damned first!' says I, and Bill werry quietly said he wished they might get it, which I didn't think they would. Bill Sykes, in slewing round to guard his starn, put his foot on a piece of orange peel, and missing stays, came on his beam ends. One of the imitation _parley woos_ made a grab at him, to captiwate Bill, when, in course, I covered my friend, and accommodated the sham Mounseer with a hoist as didn't agree with him; he was one o' them mutton-fed chaps as can't stand much; for he landed among the fiddlers, and squealed blue murder. Well, arter a row begins, you never know nothing till its over. Bill Sykes and I cleared out the French army in no time, and then we tipped the player people a broadside, and took their powder magazine prisoner. The cabin passengers interfered, and Bill Sykes and I got surrounded--but if I'd had a bagginet at the end of my musket, if I wouldn't have cleared the decks like 'bacca, damn my sister's cat.'" Mr. BURNS, at 262 Broadway, is the New-York agent for 'The Gentleman's Magazine.' _Appropos_: Why exclude the better sex? As POWER would say: 'The ladies, you dog--you wouldn't lave out the ladies, would you?' * * * * *