text_original: You win me with your infant art; But when our play is o'er, The empty cradle in my heart Seems lonelier than before. Sweet baby boy, you do not guess How oft mine eyes are dim, Or that my lingering caress Is sometimes meant for _him_.
text_transcription: YOU WIN ME WITH YOUR INFANT ART BUT WHEN OUR PLAY IS O'ER THE EMPTY CRADLE IN MY HEART SEEMS LONELIER THAN BEFORE SWEET BABY BOY YOU DO NOT GUESS HOW OFT MINE EYES ARE DIM OR THAT MY LINGERING CARESS IS SOMETIMES MEANT FOR HIM
phonemes: juː wˈɪn mˌiː wɪð jʊɹ ˈɪnfənt ˈɑːɹt; bˌʌt wɛn ˌaʊɚ plˈeɪ ɪz ˈɔːɹ, ðɪ ˈɛmpti kɹˈeɪdəl ɪn maɪ hˈɑːɹt sˈiːmz lˈoʊnliɚ ðɐn bᵻfˈɔːɹ. swˈiːt bˈeɪbi bˈɔɪ, juː duːnˌɑːt ɡˈɛs hˌaʊ ˈɔft mˈaɪn ˈaɪz ɑːɹ dˈɪm, ɔːɹ ðæt maɪ lˈɪŋɡɚɹɪŋ kɚɹˈɛs ɪz sˈʌmtaɪmz mˈɛnt fɔːɹ hˌɪm.