text_original: Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, While we sit carousing and drinking the while? Ah, bumpers, I see that our wine is all done, Our mirth falls of course, when our Bacchus is gone.
text_transcription: THOSE BOTTLES THOSE BUMPERS WHY DO THEY NOT SMILE WHILE WE SIT CAROUSING AND DRINKING THE WHILE AH BUMPERS I SEE THAT OUR WINE IS ALL DONE OUR MIRTH FALLS OF COURSE WHEN OUR BACCHUS IS GONE
phonemes: ðoʊz bˈɑːɾəlz, ðoʊz bˈʌmpɚz, wˌaɪ dˈuː ðeɪ nˌɑːt smˈaɪl, wˌaɪl wiː sˈɪt kɚɹˈaʊzɪŋ ænd dɹˈɪŋkɪŋ ðə wˈaɪl? ˈɑː, bˈʌmpɚz, aɪ sˈiː ðæt ˌaʊɚ wˈaɪn ɪz ˈɔːl dˈʌn, ˌaʊɚ mˈɜːθ fˈɔːlz ʌv kˈɔːɹs, wˌɛn ˌaʊɚ bˈækəs ɪz ɡˈɔn.