text_original: Seest thou the dear old dwelling With the woodbine round the door? Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling With the busy thoughts of yore; Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, House her spirit not so wildly, Lest she sleep not any more.
text_transcription: SEEST THOU THE DEAR OLD DWELLING WITH THE WOODBINE ROUND THE DOOR BROTHER SOFT HER BREAST IS SWELLING WITH THE BUSY THOUGHTS OF YORE LOWLY SING YE SING YE MILDLY HOW'S HER SPIRIT NOT SO WILDLY LEST SHE SLEEP NOT ANY MORE
phonemes: sˈiːst ðˈaʊ ðə dˈɪɹ ˈoʊld dwˈɛlɪŋ wɪððə wˈʊdbaɪn ɹˈaʊnd ðə dˈɔːɹ? bɹˈʌðɚz, sˈɔft! hɜː bɹˈɛst ɪz swˈɛlɪŋ wɪððə bˈɪzi θˈɔːts ʌv jˈɔːɹ; lˈoʊli sˈɪŋ jˈiː, sˈɪŋ jiː mˈaɪldli, hˈaʊs hɜː spˈɪɹɪt nˌɑːt sˌoʊ wˈaɪldli, lˈɛst ʃiː slˈiːp nˌɑːt ˌɛni mˈɔːɹ.