text_original: Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly; None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved, in such a cause, to die   But, like the Parthians famed of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew. Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from Nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own.
text_transcription: LED BY THY CONQU'RING GENIUS GREEN THE BRITONS THEY COMPELLED TO FLY NONE DISTANT VIEW'D THE FATAL PLAIN NONE GRIEVED IN SUCH A CAUSE TO DIE BUT LIKE THE PARTHIANS FAM'D OF OLD WHO FLYING STILL THEIR ARROWS THRO THOSE ROUTED BRITONS FULL AS BOLD RETREATED AND RETREATING SLEW NOW REST IN PEACE OUR PATRIOT BAND THOUGH FAR FROM NATURE'S LIMITS THROWN WE TRUST THEY FIND A HAPPIER LAND A BRIGHTER SUNSHINE OF THEIR OWN
phonemes: lˈɛd baɪ ðˌaɪ kˈɑːŋkɚɹɪŋ dʒˈiːnɪəs, ɡɹˈiːn, ðə bɹˈɪtənz ðeɪ kəmpˈɛld tə flˈaɪ; nˈʌn dˈɪstənt vjˈuːd ðə fˈeɪɾəl plˈeɪn, nˈʌn ɡɹˈiːvd, ɪn sˈʌtʃ ɐ kˈɔːz, tə dˈaɪ bˌʌt, lˈaɪk ðə pˈɑːɹθiənz fˈeɪmd ʌv ˈoʊld, hˈuː, flˈaɪɪŋ, stˈɪl ðɛɹ ˈæɹoʊz θɹˈuː, ðiːz ɹˈaʊɾᵻd bɹˈɪtənz, fˈʊl æz bˈoʊld, ɹᵻtɹˈiːɾᵻd, ænd ɹᵻtɹˈiːɾɪŋ slˈuː. nˈaʊ ɹˈɛst ɪn pˈiːs, ˌaʊɚ pˈeɪtɹɪət bˈænd; ðˌoʊ fˈɑːɹ fɹʌm nˈeɪtʃɚz lˈɪmɪts θɹˈoʊn, wiː tɹˈʌst ðeɪ fˈaɪnd ɐ hˈæpɪɚ lˈænd, ɐ bɹˈaɪɾɚ sˈʌnʃaɪn ʌv ðɛɹ ˈoʊn.