text_original: There on the hills should I behold, Sitting upon an old gray stone That humps its back up through the mold, And piping in a monotone, Pan, as he sat in days of old, My joy would bid surprise begone!
text_transcription: THERE ON THE HILLS SHOULD I BEHOLD SITTING UPON AN OLD GRAY STONE THAT HUMPS ITS BACK UP THROUGH THE MOULD AND PIPING IN A MONOTONE PAN AS HE SAT IN DAYS OF OLD MY JOY WOULD BID SURPRISE BE GONE
phonemes: ðɛɹ ɔnðə hˈɪlz ʃˌʊd aɪ bᵻhˈoʊld, sˈɪɾɪŋ əpˌɑːn ɐn ˈoʊld ɡɹˈeɪ stˈoʊn ðæt hˈʌmps ɪts bˈæk ˌʌp θɹuː ðə mˈoʊld, ænd pˈaɪpɪŋ ɪn ɐ mˈɑːnətˌoʊn, pˈæn, æz hiː sˈæt ɪn dˈeɪz ʌv ˈoʊld, maɪ dʒˈɔɪ wʊd bˈɪd sɚpɹˈaɪz bᵻɡˈɑːn!