text_original: Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle, With its "touch me who dare" and he dies! An hour, and the battle is over; The eagles are rending the prey; The serpents seek flight into cover, But the terror still stands in the way: More dreadful the doom that on treason Avenges the wrongs of the state; And the oak tree for many a season Bears fruit for the vultures of fate! WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
text_transcription: FEELS THE MORAL THAT LIES IN SCOTCH THISTLE WITH ITS TOUCH ME WHO DARE AND HE DIES AN HOUR AND THE BATTLE IS OVER THE EAGLES ARE RENDING THE PREY THE SERPENTS SEEK FLIGHT INTO COVER BUT THE TERROR STILL STANDS IN THE WAY MORE DREADFUL THE DOOM THAT ON TREASON AVENGES THE WRONGS OF THE STATE AND THE OAK TREE FOR MANY A SEASON BEARS FRUITS FOR THE VULTURES OF FATE WILLIAM GILLMORE SYMS
phonemes: fˈiːlz ðə mˈɔːɹəl ðæt lˈaɪz ɪn skˈɑːtʃ θˈɪsəl, wɪð ɪts "tˈʌtʃ mˌiː hˌuː dˈɛɹ" ænd hiː dˈaɪz! ɐn ˈaʊɚ, ænd ðə bˈæɾəl ɪz ˈoʊvɚ; ðɪ ˈiːɡəlz ɑːɹ ɹˈɛndɪŋ ðə pɹˈeɪ; ðə sˈɜːpənts sˈiːk flˈaɪt ˌɪntʊ kˈʌvɚ, bˌʌt ðə tˈɛɹɚ stˈɪl stˈændz ɪnðə wˈeɪ: mˈɔːɹ dɹˈɛdfəl ðə dˈuːm ðæt ˌɔn tɹˈiːzən ɐvˈɛndʒᵻz ðə ɹˈɔŋz ʌvðə stˈeɪt; ænd ðɪ ˈoʊk tɹˈiː fɔːɹ mˈɛni ɐ sˈiːzən bˈɛɹz fɹˈuːt fɚðə vˈʌltʃɚz ʌv fˈeɪt! wˈɪljəm ɡˈɪlmɔːɹ sˈɪmz.