text_original: The seventh day of October The British tried again, Shells from their cannon throwing, Which fell on us like rain; To drive us from our stations, That they might thus retreat; For now Burgoyne saw plainly He never could us beat. But vain was his endeavor Our men to terrify; Though death was all around us, Not one of us would fly.
text_transcription: THE SEVENTH DAY OF OCTOBER THE BRITISH TRIED AGAIN SHELLS FROM THEIR CANNON THROWING WHICH FELL ON US LIKE RAIN TO DRIVE US FROM OUR STATIONS THAT THEY MIGHT THUS RETREAT FOR NOW BURGOYNE SAW PLAINLY HE NEVER COULD US BEAT BUT VAIN WAS HIS ENDEAVOUR OUR MEN TO TERRIFY THOUGH DEATH WAS ALL AROUND US NOT ONE OF US WOULD FLY
phonemes: ðə sˈɛvənθ dˈeɪ ʌv ɑːktˈoʊbɚ ðə bɹˈɪɾɪʃ tɹˈaɪd ɐɡˈɛn, ʃˈɛlz fɹʌm ðɛɹ kˈænən θɹˈoʊɪŋ, wˌɪtʃ fˈɛl ˌɔn ˌʌs lˈaɪk ɹˈeɪn; tə dɹˈaɪv ˌʌs fɹʌm ˌaʊɚ stˈeɪʃənz, ðæt ðeɪ mˌaɪt ðˈʌs ɹᵻtɹˈiːt; fɔːɹ nˈaʊ bˈɜːɡɔɪn sˈɔː plˈeɪnli hiː nˈɛvɚ kʊd ˌʌs bˈiːt. bˌʌt vˈeɪn wʌz hɪz ɛndˈɛvɚɹ ˌaʊɚ mˈɛn tə tˈɛɹᵻfˌaɪ; ðˌoʊ dˈɛθ wʌz ˈɔːl ɚɹˈaʊnd ˌʌs, nˌɑːt wˈʌn ʌv ˌʌs wʊd flˈaɪ.