text_original: ^^ 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. " It was n't your fault, my own little girl, But only the fault of the tide. That has carried away with its mighty swirl So many a heart beside/' 144 '' DO YOU CALL THE LIVING THE DEAD
text_transcription: 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 IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT MY SWEET LITTLE GIRL BUT ONLY THE FAULT OF THE TIDE THAT HAS CARRIED AWAY WITH ITS MIGHTY SWIRL SO MANY A HEART BESIDE DO YOU CALL THE LIVING THE DEAD
phonemes: 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. " ɪt wʌz ˈɛnt jʊɹ fˈɔlt, maɪ ˈoʊn lˈɪɾəl ɡˈɜːl, bˌʌt ˈoʊnli ðə fˈɔlt ʌvðə tˈaɪd. ðæt hɐz kˈæɹid ɐwˈeɪ wɪð ɪts mˈaɪɾi swˈɜːl sˌoʊ mˈɛni ɐ hˈɑːɹt bᵻsˌaɪd slˈæʃ wˈʌnhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɔːɹɾi fˈɔːɹ dˈuː juː kˈɔːl ðə lˈɪvɪŋ ðə dˈɛd