text_original: MUGFORD'S VICTORY [May 17 19, 1776] Our mother, the pride of us all, She sits on her crags by the shore, And her feet they are wet with the waves Whose foam is as flowers from the graves Of her sons whom she welcomes no more, And who answer no more to her call.
text_transcription: MUGFORD'S VICTORY MAY SEVENTEENTH NINETEEN SEVENTEEN SEVENTY SIX OUR MOTHER THE PRIDE OF US ALL SHE SITS ON HER CRAGS LEFT BY THE SHORE AND HER FEET THEY ARE WET WITH THE WAVES WHOSE FOAM IS AS FLOWERS FROM THE GRAVES OF HER SONS WHOM SHE WELCOMES NO MORE AND WHO ANSWER NO MORE TO HER CALL
phonemes: mˈʌɡfɚdz vˈɪktɚɹi [mˈeɪ sˈɛvəntˌiːn nˈaɪntiːn, wˈʌn θˈaʊzənd sˈɛvənhˈʌndɹɪd sˈɛvənti sˈɪks] ˌaʊɚ mˈʌðɚ, ðə pɹˈaɪd ʌv ˌʌs ˈɔːl, ʃiː sˈɪts ˌɔn hɜː kɹˈæɡz baɪ ðə ʃˈɔːɹ, ænd hɜː fˈiːt ðeɪ ɑːɹ wˈɛt wɪððə wˈeɪvz hˌuːz fˈoʊm ɪz æz flˈaʊɚz fɹʌmðə ɡɹˈeɪvz ʌv hɜː sˈʌnz hˈuːm ʃiː wˈɛlkʌmz nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ, ænd hˌuː ˈænsɚ nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ tə hɜː kˈɔːl.