text_original: It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken this Abbot could never tire. Till at last he well bethought him; he might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing bird, and gladly went his way.
text_transcription: IT SUNG UPON A SYCAMORE IT SUNG UPON A BRIAR TO FOLLOW THE SONG AND HEARKEN THIS ABBOT COULD NEVER TIRE TILL AT LAST HE WELL BETHOUGHT HIM HE MIGHT NO LONGER STAY SO HE BLESSED THE LITTLE WHITE SINGING BIRD AND GLADLY WENT HIS WAY
phonemes: ɪt sˈʌŋ əpˌɑːn ɐ sˈɪkɐmˌɔːɹ, ɪt sˈʌŋ əpˌɑːn ɐ bɹˈaɪɚ; tə fˈɑːloʊ ðə sˈɔŋ ænd hˈɑːɹkən ðɪs ˈæbət kʊd nˈɛvɚ tˈaɪɚ. tˈɪl æt lˈæst hiː wˈɛl bˈɛθɔːt hˌɪm; hiː mˌaɪt nˌoʊ lˈɑːŋɡɚ stˈeɪ; sˌoʊ hiː blˈɛsd ðə lˈɪɾəl wˈaɪt sˈɪŋɪŋ bˈɜːd, ænd ɡlˈædli wɛnt hɪz wˈeɪ.