text_original: The soldiers marched witli trailing weapons and cloaks dragging in the dust, looking surly and tired, for these noble fellows are averse to anything but battle or inaction. The coarse banter and threadbare jests which delighted them but yesterday had lost their savor. The air was HANS OF ICELAND. 331 chill, the sky clouded. Nothing would raise a laugh in the ranks, unless one of the sutler women should get an awkward tumble from her little Barbaiy horse, or a tin saucepan should happen to roll over the precipice and rebound from rock to rock.
text_transcription: THE SOLDIERS MARCHED WITH TRAILING WEAPONS AND CLOAKS DRAGGING IN THE DUST LOOKING SURLY AND TIRED FOR THESE NOBLE FELLOWS ARE AVERSE TO ANYTHING BUT BATTLE OR INACTION THE COARSE BANTA AND FED THEIR JESTS WHICH DELIGHTED THEM BUT YESTERDAY HAD LOST THEIR SAVOUR THE AIR WAS CHILL THE SKY CLOUDED NOTHING WOULD RAISE A LAUGH IN THE RANKS UNLESS ONE OF THE SUTLER WOMEN SHOULD GET AN AWKWARD TUMBLE FROM HER LITTLE BARBARY HORSE OR A TIN SAUCEPAN SHOULD HAPPEN TO ROLL OVER THE PRECIPICE AND REBOUND FROM ROCK TO ROCK
phonemes: ðə sˈoʊldʒɚz mˈɑːɹtʃt wˈɪtli tɹˈeɪlɪŋ wˈɛpənz ænd klˈoʊks dɹˈæɡɪŋ ɪnðə dˈʌst, lˈʊkɪŋ sˈɜːli ænd tˈaɪɚd, fɔːɹ ðiːz nˈoʊbəl fˈɛloʊz ɑːɹ ɐvˈɜːs tʊ ˈɛnɪθˌɪŋ bˌʌt bˈæɾəl ɔːɹ ɪnˈækʃən. ðə kˈɔːɹs bˈæntɚ ænd θɹˈɛdbɛɹ dʒˈɛsts wˌɪtʃ dᵻlˈaɪɾᵻd ðˌɛm bˌʌt jˈɛstɚdˌeɪ hæd lˈɔst ðɛɹ sˈeɪvɚ. ðɪ ˈɛɹ wʌz hˈænz ʌv ˈaɪslənd. θɹˈiːhˈʌndɹɪd θˈɜːɾi wˈʌn tʃˈɪl, ðə skˈaɪ klˈaʊdᵻd. nˈʌθɪŋ wʊd ɹˈeɪz ɐ lˈæf ɪnðə ɹˈæŋks, ʌnlˈɛs wˈʌn ʌvðə sˈʌtlɚ wˈɪmɪn ʃˌʊd ɡɛt ɐn ˈɔːkwɚd tˈʌmbəl fɹʌm hɜː lˈɪɾəl bˈɑːɹbeɪi hˈɔːɹs, ɔːɹ ɐ tˈɪn sˈɔːspən ʃˌʊd hˈæpən tə ɹˈoʊl ˌoʊvɚ ðə pɹˈɛsᵻpˌɪs ænd ɹᵻbˈaʊnd fɹʌm ɹˈɑːk tə ɹˈɑːk.