text_original: An' when she comes back at last, an' we see her then No more nor the size of a sod of turf that's a mile away, And she cornin', cornin' slow through the mist of the glen, Like one in her sleep, och, nobody dares to say, "You're welcome, Bridget, an' where were y'all this while?"
text_transcription: AND WHEN SHE COMES BACK AT LAST AND WE SEE HER THEN NO MORE NOR THE SIZE OF A SORT OF TURF THAT'S A MILE AWAY AND SHE COMING COMING SLOW THROUGH THE MIST OF THE GLEN LIKE ONE IN HER SLEEP AH NOBODY DARES TO SAY YOU'RE WELCOME BRIDGET AND WE'RE WEARY ALL THIS WHILE
phonemes: æn wɛn ʃiː kˈʌmz bˈæk æt lˈæst, æn wiː sˈiː hɜː ðˈɛn nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ nˈɔːɹ ðə sˈaɪz əvə sˈɑːd ʌv tˈɜːf ðæts ɐ mˈaɪl ɐwˈeɪ, ænd ʃiː kˈɔːɹnɪn, kˈɔːɹnɪn slˈoʊ θɹuː ðə mˈɪst ʌvðə ɡlˈɛn, lˈaɪk wˈʌn ɪn hɜː slˈiːp, ˈɑːk, nˈoʊbɑːdi dˈɛɹz tə sˈeɪ, "jʊɹ wˈɛlkʌm, bɹˈɪdʒɪt, æn wˌɛɹ wɜː jˈɔːl ðɪs wˈaɪl?"