text_original: How you tremble, little Sybil, At the cannons' dreadful sound, Did you see far away, the fallen steed, And its rider prone on the ground? The dark brown locks so low in the dust, The scarf with a crimson stain   Oh, Sybil, poor little Sybil, He will not come back again.
text_transcription: HOW YOU TREMBLE LITTLE SIBYL AT THE CANNON'S DREADFUL SOUND DID YOU SEE FAR AWAY THE FALLEN STEED AND ITS RIDER PRONE ON THE GROUND THE DARK BROWN LOCKS SO LOW IN THE DUST THE SCARF WITH A CRIMSON STAIN O SIBYL POOR LITTLE SIBYL HE WILL NOT COME BACK AGAIN
phonemes: hˌaʊ juː tɹˈɛmbəl, lˈɪɾəl sˈɪbɪl, æt ðə kˈænənz dɹˈɛdfəl sˈaʊnd, dˈɪd juː sˈiː fˈɑːɹ ɐwˈeɪ, ðə fˈɔːlən stˈiːd, ænd ɪts ɹˈaɪdɚ pɹˈoʊn ɔnðə ɡɹˈaʊnd? ðə dˈɑːɹk bɹˈaʊn lˈɑːks sˌoʊ lˈoʊ ɪnðə dˈʌst, ðə skˈɑːɹf wɪð ɐ kɹˈɪmsən stˈeɪn ˈoʊ, sˈɪbɪl, pˈʊɹ lˈɪɾəl sˈɪbɪl, hiː wɪl nˌɑːt kˈʌm bˈæk ɐɡˈɛn.