In an oriental clime, seated on a mystic shrine,
Buddha dwells, and dispels hate.
Came a maid, to him one day,
With a troubled heart, they say,
She was told he controlled fate.
"Oh, Buddha, listen to my plea,
I bring my troubled heart to thee,
so won't you please tell me;"
"Buhhda,does he really love me,
Buhhda, is he thinking of me,
At each dawn I'm awaking,
And I find my heart still breaking;
Buddha with the poppies blooming,
He said he'd come back to me,
Buddha, can't you discover,
My heart cries, there's another
Buddha with your mystic power,
Buddha, take this faded flower,
I know he'll understand and ease my sad heart, why?
Oh, why did he say good bye?
Buddha listen to my plea,
bring him back to me.
Times changed quickly into years,
still no word from him she hears,
But each day, she would pray low.
When her savings all were spent,
magic messages were sent,
She enthused at the news so.
I came from, far away
While those near heard her softly say,
"now won't you please tell me;"
Pollack, Lew and Rose, Ed, "Buddha" (1919). Historic Sheet Music Collection. 165.
The views expressed in this paper are solely those of the author.