text_original: No poor's rates, and no workhouse, Were needed in those days, The monks were all they wanted, They work'd for Jesu's praise. The Holy Mass was over, The Abbot seeks his cell, His heart is strangely trembling, Wherefore he cannot tell.
text_transcription: NO POOR STRAITS AND NO WORKHOUSE WERE NEEDED IN THOSE DAYS THE MONKS WERE ALL THEY WANTED THEY WORKED FOR JESUS PRAISE THE HOLY MESS WAS OVER THE ABBOT SEEKS HIS CELL HIS HEART IS STRANGELY TREMBLING WHEREFORE HE CANNOT TELL
phonemes: nˈoʊ pˈʊɹz ɹˈeɪts, ænd nˈoʊ wˈɜːkhaʊs, wɜː nˈiːdᵻd ɪn ðoʊz dˈeɪz, ðə mˈʌŋks wɜːɹ ˈɔːl ðeɪ wˈɔntᵻd, ðeɪ wˈɜːkd fɔːɹ dʒˈɛsuːz pɹˈeɪz. ðə hˈoʊli mˈæs wʌz ˈoʊvɚ, ðɪ ˈæbət sˈiːks hɪz sˈɛl, hɪz hˈɑːɹt ɪz stɹˈeɪndʒli tɹˈɛmblɪŋ, wˈɛɹfɔːɹ hiː kænˈɑːt tˈɛl.