text_original: 143 THE GREAT WORLD TIDE. ^^ There is never a word of blame from me, — You strove to be true to the past, And the little hands clung where the frail weeds hung, When the world tide swept so fast.
text_transcription: THE GREAT WORLD TIDE THERE IS NEVER A WORD OF BLAME FROM ME YOU STROVE TO BE TRUE TO THE PAST AND THE LITTLE HANDS CLUNG WHERE THE FRAIL WEEDS HUNG WHEN THE WORLD TIDE SWEPT SO FAST
phonemes: wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɔːɹɾi θɹˈiː ðə ɡɹˈeɪt wˈɜːld tˈaɪd. ðɛɹ ɪz nˈɛvɚɹ ɐ wˈɜːd ʌv blˈeɪm fɹʌm mˌiː, — juː stɹˈoʊv təbi tɹˈuː tə ðə pˈæst, ænd ðə lˈɪɾəl hˈændz klˈʌŋ wˌɛɹ ðə fɹˈeɪl wˈiːdz hˈʌŋ, wˌɛn ðə wˈɜːld tˈaɪd swˈɛpt sˌoʊ fˈæst.