text_original: Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night birds are we; Here we carouse. Singing, like them, POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit.
text_transcription: ONCE ON THE BOUGHS BIRDS OF RARE PLUME SANG IN ITS BLOOM NIGHT BIRDS ARE WE HERE WE CAROUSE SINGING LIKE THEM PURGED ROUND THE STEM OF THE JOLLY OLD TREE HERE LET US SPORT BOYS AS WE SIT
phonemes: wˈʌns ɔnðə bˈaʊz bˈɜːdz ʌv ɹˈɛɹ plˈuːm sˈæŋ, ɪn ɪts blˈuːm; nˈaɪt bˈɜːdz ɑːɹ wiː; hˈɪɹ wiː kɚɹˈaʊz. sˈɪŋɪŋ, lˈaɪk ðˌɛm, pˈoʊᵻmz ʌv fɹˈɛndʃɪp. pˈɜːtʃt ɹˈaʊnd ðə stˈɛm ʌvðə dʒˈɑːli ˈoʊld tɹˈiː. hˈɪɹ lˈɛt ˌʌs spˈɔːɹt, bˈɔɪz, æz wiː sˈɪt.