text_original: Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear   They saw their injured country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear,  but left the shield.
text_transcription: STRANGER THEIR HUMBLE GRAVES ADORN YOU TOO MAY FALL AND ASKETEER TIS NOT THE BEAUTY OF THE MORN THAT PROVES THE EVENING SHALL BE CLEAR THEY SAW THEIR INJURED COUNTRY'S WOE THE FLAMING TOWN THE WASTED FIELD THEN RUSH'D TO MEET THE INSULTING FOE THEY TOOK THE SPEAR BUT LEFT THE SHIELD
phonemes: stɹˈeɪndʒɚ, ðɛɹ hˈʌmbəl ɡɹˈeɪvz ɐdˈɔːɹn; juː tˈuː mˈeɪ fˈɔːl ænd ˈæsk ɐ tˈɪɹ; tˈɪz nˌɑːt ðə bjˈuːɾi ʌvðə mˈɔːɹn ðæt pɹˈuːvz ðɪ ˈiːvnɪŋ ʃˌæl biː klˈɪɹ ðeɪ sˈɔː ðɛɹ ˈɪndʒɚd kˈʌntɹiz wˈoʊ; ðə flˈeɪmɪŋ tˈaʊn, ðə wˈeɪstᵻd fˈiːld; ðˈɛn ɹˈʌʃt tə mˈiːt ðɪ ɪnsˈʌltɪŋ fˈoʊ; ðeɪ tˈʊk ðə spˈɪɹ,  bˌʌt lˈɛft ðə ʃˈiːld.