Couldn't find this version, so I made what I hope is a reasonable transcription of one of Nic Jones's versions.
How many of his are there actualy?
The Black Family seem to have lots and lots of mondegreens.
Anyway:


THE WARLIKE LADS OF RUSSIA
(Trad. Arr. Jones)

When Bonaparte from Poland into Muscovy went,
With all his troops and all his men, their minds were fully bent
For to take the Russian country, Oh, they were full employ'd,
But the Russians fought against them and they soon did them destroy.

CHORUS: Oh, the warlike lads of Russia, they fought all in one mind;
Made Bonaparte to run and leave his troops behind.

Now when from Muscovy City, Oh, the Russians did retreat,
Neither Bonaparte nor all his men not any thing could get.
When from Muscovy City, Oh, the Russians took their flight,
They set the town on fire and they burnt it down that night.

CHORUS

Now in a little while, Oh the Russians did attack,
Against Bonaparte and all his men, they kill'd and took and drove 'em back.
But the action being so hot, from right and left and front and rear,
Oh, damn you, says poor Bonaparte, I'll stay no longer here.

CHORUS

And away then went poor Bonaparte as fast as he could ride.
And the poor Frenchmen looked after him, saying, Oh it's very hard
But to think you'd lead us all up here, and leave us to our fate.
Oh, you ought to stop along with us and help us in our state.

CHORUS

And away then went poor Bonaparte as fast as he could run,
Over hedges and o'er ditches; he left horses, men, and guns.
His boxes and his matches, ammunition waggons too,
He left them all behind him. What else could poor Boney do?

CHORUS

Says he 80,000 men from me they've kill'd and they've taken,
Besides 10,000 horses fine and 200 pieces of cannon;
But never more to Paris or French land I dare advance,
For if I do, I may be sure they'll teach me how to dance.

CHORUS

So it's to conclude and thus to try and finish off my song,
Oh, Boney's men in Russia swear they wish they'd hold of him.
And the cruelest death they'd put him to that e'er a man befell.
Oh, curse you says poor Bonaparte. I'm clear of you all.

CHORUS