See also Here (which also includes the text of Sir Olaf I brought up Here).

Meanwhile Span's elves continue to plague me in darkest shadows of my barely conscious brain; even in my dreams they leap about and torment me, foul and grim indeed. It is an obsession going back to 1975 when, as a tender 14-year-old seduced by all manner otherwise wondrous folkery, I bought the album thinking it might be the sort of thing I would like. Nothing could have been further from the truth; never had I heard anything quite as bad, or indeed as embarrassing, as this limp wristed slab of what was quite possibly the worst music in the world. Even now it brings me out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. But in getting rid of the record (which I did forthwith into the village bonfire) I could not get rid of those cursed elves who have been with me ever since. For some thirty-three years I have sought catharsis, or simply sense, or yet even the provenance of this vile and abominable song.

Otherwise - I dare say a complete translation of Eline af Villenskov would suffice... Anyone?

Meanwhile:

All of this fantastic league's against me
The Fantastic is in league against me

Tin-can rattle on the path
The bestial greed is on the attack
The cat black runs round the tree
The siamese reached the shore
The siamese reached the shore

No never, no never no more
will I trust the elves of Dunsimore

Or even:

The chief elf Norman said
Gutter sweat
Splendid droplets on strings
His toes were cloven
His teeth were squirly and pointy
Knee cups curly
Ding click rings on ears
Norman jumped about
On all four corners
Norman twirled around his golden thrones
Whitewall tyres were a lifetime from his thoughts

(Both: Mark E. Smith)