text_original: Where our slaughtered friends are lying; Not boldly slain On the battle plain, But each by his hearth stone dying. Away Away! Away! To horse, to rifle springing, While the widow's sigh And the orphan's cry In our ears,  in our _hearts_ are ringing!
text_transcription: WHERE OUR SLAUGHTERED FRIENDS ARE LYING NOT BOLDLY SLAIN ON THE BATTLE PLAIN BUT EACH BY HIS HEARTHSTONE DYING AWAY AWAY TO HORSE TO RIFLE SPRINGING WHILE THE WIDOWS SIGH AND THE ORPHANS CRY IN OUR EARS IN OUR HEARTS ARE RINGING
phonemes: wˌɛɹ ˌaʊɚ slˈɔːɾɚd fɹˈɛndz ɑːɹ lˈaɪɪŋ; nˌɑːt bˈoʊldli slˈeɪn ɔnðə bˈæɾəl plˈeɪn, bˌʌt ˈiːtʃ baɪ hɪz hˈɑːɹθ stˈoʊn dˈaɪɪŋ. ɐwˈeɪ ɐwˈeɪ! ɐwˈeɪ! tə hˈɔːɹs, tə ɹˈaɪfəl spɹˈɪŋɪŋ, wˌaɪl ðə wˈɪdoʊz sˈaɪ ænd ðɪ ˈɔːɹfənz kɹˈaɪ ɪn ˌaʊɚɹ ˈɪɹz,  ɪn ˌaʊɚ hˈɑːɹts ɑːɹ ɹˈɪŋɪŋ!