text_original: A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe.
text_transcription: A LITTLE ROCKY RIVULET RUNS MURMURING TO THE TIDE SINGING A SONG OF ANCIENT DAYS IN SORROW NOT IN PRIDE THE BOAR TREE AND THE LIGHTSOME ASH ACROSS THE PORTAL GROW AND HEAVEN ITSELF IS NOW THE ROOF OF ABBEY AZAROE
phonemes: ɐ lˈɪɾəl ɹˈɑːki ɹˈɪvjʊlɪt ɹˈʌnz mˈɜːmɚɹɪŋ tə ðə tˈaɪd, sˈɪŋɪŋ ɐ sˈɔŋ ʌv ˈeɪntʃənt dˈeɪz, ɪn sˈɑːɹoʊ, nˌɑːt ɪn pɹˈaɪd; ðə bˈɔːɹtɹiː ænd ðə lˈaɪtsʌm ˈæʃ əkɹˌɑːs ðə pˈɔːɹɾəl ɡɹˈoʊ, ænd hˈɛvən ɪtsˈɛlf ɪz nˈaʊ ðə ɹˈuːf ʌv ˈæbi ɐsˈæɹoʊ.