text_original: Wheat fields whose golden silences are stirred By whirring insect wings, and naught is heard But plaintive callings of that one sweet word, "Bob White! Bob White!" And a smell of the clover growing In the meadow lands ripe for mowing, All red and white. Over the shady creek comes sailing, Past willows in the water trailing.
text_transcription: WHEAT FIELDS WHOSE GOLDEN SILENCE IS A STIRRED BY WHIRRING INSECT WINGS AND NOUGHT IS HEARD BUT PLAINTIVE CALLINGS OF THAT ONE SWEET WORD BOB WHITE BOB WHITE AND THE SMELL OF THE CLOVER GROWING IN THE MEADOW LANDS RIPE FOR MOWING ALL RED AND WHITE OVER THE SHADY CREEK COMES SAILING PAST WILLOWS IN THE WATER TRAILING
phonemes: wˈiːt fˈiːldz hˌuːz ɡˈoʊldən sˈaɪlənsᵻz ɑːɹ stˈɜːd baɪ wˈɜːɹɪŋ ˈɪnsɛkt wˈɪŋz, ænd nˈɔːt ɪz hˈɜːd bˌʌt plˈeɪntɪv kˈɔːlɪŋz ʌv ðˈætwˌʌn swˈiːt wˈɜːd, "bˈɑːb wˈaɪt! bˈɑːb wˈaɪt!" ænd ɐ smˈɛl ʌvðə klˈoʊvɚ ɡɹˈoʊɪŋ ɪnðə mˈɛdoʊ lˈændz ɹˈaɪp fɔːɹ mˈoʊɪŋ, ˈɔːl ɹˈɛd ænd wˈaɪt. ˌoʊvɚ ðə ʃˈeɪdi kɹˈiːk kˈʌmz sˈeɪlɪŋ, pˈæst wˈɪloʊz ɪnðə wˈɔːɾɚ tɹˈeɪlɪŋ.