text_original: As some raw youth in country bred, To arms by thirst of honour led, When at a skirmish first he hears The bullets whistling round his ears, Will duck his head aside, will start, And feel a trembling at his heart, Till 'scaping oft without a wound Lessens the terror of the sound; Fly bullets now as thick as hops, He runs into a cannon's chops.
text_transcription: AS SOME RAW YOUTH IN COUNTRY BRED TO ARMS BY THIRST OF HONOUR LED WHEN AT A SKIRMISH FIRST HE HEARS THE BULLETS WHISTLING ROUND HIS EARS WILL DUCK HIS HEAD ASIDE WILL START AND FEEL A TREMBLING AT HIS HEART TILL SCAPING OFT WITHOUT A WOUND LESSENS THE TERROR OF THE SOUND FLY BULLETS NOW AS THICK AS HOPS HE RUNS INTO A CANNON'S CHOPS
phonemes: æz sˌʌm ɹˈɔː jˈuːθ ɪn kˈʌntɹi bɹˈɛd, tʊ ˈɑːɹmz baɪ θˈɜːst ʌv ˈɑːnɚ lˈɛd, wˌɛn æɾə skˈɜːmɪʃ fˈɜːst hiː hˈɪɹz ðə bˈʊlɪts wˈɪsəlɪŋ ɹˈaʊnd hɪz ˈɪɹz, wɪl dˈʌk hɪz hˈɛd ɐsˈaɪd, wɪl stˈɑːɹt, ænd fˈiːl ɐ tɹˈɛmblɪŋ æt hɪz hˈɑːɹt, tˈɪl skˈeɪpɪŋ ˈɔft wɪðˌaʊt ɐ wˈuːnd lˈɛsənz ðə tˈɛɹɚɹ ʌvðə sˈaʊnd; flˈaɪ bˈʊlɪts nˈaʊ æz θˈɪk æz hˈɑːps, hiː ɹˈʌnz ˌɪntʊ ɐ kˈænənz tʃˈɑːps.