text_original: And now yon friar with the bare feet there, Is grown the haunting spirit of the place; Ah! brown robed friar with the shaven face, The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer. From matins' bell to the slow day's decline He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads, Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds And nods assent to each familiar line.
text_transcription: AND NOW YON FRIAR WITH THE BARE FEET THERE IS GROWN THE HAUNTING SPIRIT OF THE PLACE AH BROWN ROBED FRIAR WITH THE SHAVEN FACE THE SAINTS ARE WEARY OF THY MUMBLED PRAYER FROM MATIN'S BELL TO THE SLOW DAYS DECLINE HE SITS AND THUMBS HIS ENDLESS ROUND OF BEADS DRAWLS OUT THE DREARY CADENS OF HIS CREEDS AND NODS ASSENT TO EACH FAMILIAR LINE
phonemes: ænd nˈaʊ jˈɑːn fɹˈaɪɚ wɪððə bˈɛɹ fˈiːt ðˈɛɹ, ɪz ɡɹˈoʊn ðə hˈɔːntɪŋ spˈɪɹɪt ʌvðə plˈeɪs; ˈɑː! bɹˈaʊn ɹˈoʊbd fɹˈaɪɚ wɪððə ʃˈeɪvən fˈeɪs, ðə sˈeɪnts ɑːɹ wˈɪɹi ʌv ðˌaɪ mˈʌmbəld pɹˈɛɹ. fɹʌm mˈætɪnz bˈɛl tə ðə slˈoʊ dˈeɪz dᵻklˈaɪn hiː sˈɪts ænd θˈʌmz hɪz ˈɛndləs ɹˈaʊnd ʌv bˈiːdz, dɹˈɔːlz ˈaʊt ðə dɹˈɪɹi kˈeɪdəns ʌv hɪz kɹˈiːdz ænd nˈɑːdz ɐsˈɛnt tʊ ˈiːtʃ fəmˈɪlɪɹ lˈaɪn.