text_original: 85 NO TRUER COMRADE. With our lives in our hands from morn to morn, She watched and toiled with me, Till the scabbard grew thin and sorely worn. And the blade flashed bare and free. I buried her there in the desert space, — No truer comrade than she, To smile at the storm, and the worst to face, Whatever the worst might be.
text_transcription: NO TRUER COMRADE WITH OUR LIVES IN OUR HANDS FROM MORN TO MORN SHE WATCHED AND TOILED WITH ME TILL THE SCABBARD GREW THIN AND SORELY WORN AND THE BLADE FLASHED BARE AND FREE I BURIED HER THERE IN THE DESERT SPACE NO TRUER COMRADE THAN SHE TO SMILE AT THE STORM AND THE WORST TO FACE WHATEVER THE WORST MIGHT BE
phonemes: ˈeɪɾi fˈaɪv nˈoʊ tɹˈuːɚ kˈɑːmɹæd. wɪð ˌaʊɚ lˈaɪvz ɪn ˌaʊɚ hˈændz fɹʌm mˈɔːɹn tə mˈɔːɹn, ʃiː wˈɑːtʃt ænd tˈɔɪld wɪð mˌiː, tˈɪl ðə skˈæbɚd ɡɹˈuː θˈɪn ænd sˈɔːɹli wˈɔːɹn. ænd ðə blˈeɪd flˈæʃt bˈɛɹ ænd fɹˈiː. aɪ bˈɛɹid hɜː ðɛɹ ɪnðə dˈɛzɚt spˈeɪs, — nˈoʊ tɹˈuːɚ kˈɑːmɹæd ðɐn ʃiː, tə smˈaɪl æt ðə stˈɔːɹm, ænd ðə wˈɜːst tə fˈeɪs, wʌtˈɛvɚ ðə wˈɜːst mˌaɪt bˈiː.