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Break, break, break Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O
Sea!
And I would that my tongue
could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
breɪk | breɪk | breɪk |
ɒn ðaɪ kəʊl(d) ɡreɪ stəʊnz | əʊ
siː|
ənd aɪ wʊd ðət maɪ tʌŋ kəd
ʌtə |
ðə θɔːts ðət əraɪz ɪn miː |
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister
at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the
bay!
əʊ | wel fə ðə fɪʃəmənz bɔɪ|
ðət (h)i ʃɑʊts wɪð ɪz sɪstər ət
pleɪ |
əʊ | wel fə ðə seɪlə læd |
ðət (h)i sɪŋz ɪn ɪz bəʊt ɒn ðə
beɪ |
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;