text_original: The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender llesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; Digitized by Google YOUTH. 257 A heritage, it seems to me.
text_transcription: THE RICH MAN'S SON INHERITS LANDS AND PILES OF BRICK AND STONE AND GOLD AND HE INHERITS SOFT WHITE HANDS AND TENDER FLESH THAT FEARS THE COLD NOR DARES TO WEAR A GARMENT OLD A HERITAGE IT SEEMS TO ME
phonemes: ðə ɹˈɪtʃ mˈænz sˈʌn ɪnhˈɛɹɪts lˈændz, ænd pˈaɪlz ʌv bɹˈɪk, ænd stˈoʊn, ænd ɡˈoʊld, ænd hiː ɪnhˈɛɹɪts sˈɔft, wˈaɪt hˈændz, ænd tˈɛndɚ lˈɛʃ ðæt fˈɪɹz ðə kˈoʊld, nˈɔːɹ dˈɛɹz tə wˈɛɹ ɐ ɡˈɑːɹmənt ˈoʊld; dˈɪdʒɪtˌaɪzd baɪ ɡˈuːɡəl jˈuːθ. tˈuːhˈʌndɹɪd fˈɪfti sˈɛvən ɐ hˈɛɹɪɾɪdʒ, ɪt sˈiːmz tə mˌiː.