text_original: "This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand; Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to trust Such lazy fools for half a crust, Much less for labour. Sons," he cried, "Go, call our kinsmen on each side, We'll go to work."
text_transcription: THE SWEET HE SAID OUGHT NOT TO STAND OUR FRIENDS ARE WRONG NO HELPING HAND TO GIVE AND WE ARE WRONG TO TRUST SUCH LAZY FOOLS FOR HALF A CRUST MUCH LESS FOR LABOUR SONS HE CRIED GO CALL OUR KINSMEN ON EACH SIDE WE'LL GO TO WORK
phonemes: "ðɪs wˈiːt," hiː sˈɛd, "ˈɔːt nˌɑːt tə stˈænd; ˌaʊɚ fɹˈɛndz ɑːɹ ɹˈɔŋ nˈoʊ hˈɛlpɪŋ hˈænd tə ɡˈɪv, ænd wiː ɑːɹ ɹˈɔŋ tə tɹˈʌst sˈʌtʃ lˈeɪzi fˈuːlz fɔːɹ hˈæf ɐ kɹˈʌst, mˈʌtʃ lˈɛs fɔːɹ lˈeɪbɚ. sˈʌnz," hiː kɹˈaɪd, "ɡˈoʊ, kˈɔːl ˌaʊɚ kˈɪnzmɛn ˌɔn ˈiːtʃ sˈaɪd, wiːl ɡˌoʊ tə wˈɜːk."