London item: " At the Buckingham Palace banquet, given to the Colonial Premiers and others, Westralian apples were eaten by the King. He afterwards conversed with Westralia's Agent-General (C. H. Rason), and on parting said, " Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples " ".
The banquet was a bonza, a rare recherche feed,
Every item there was up-to-date and swagger,
From the appetizing oysters to the coffee and the weed,
When the guests had waded through the Royal jagger.
There were squatters from the Sydneyside and butter kings from Vic.,
Lack of space, alone, from naming them prevents us;
But the proudest pea of all who lapped the pale Imperial shick
Was Rason, who in London represents us.
The King was kind and courteous, and had grins for every guest,
With that tactfulness that always grips and grapples,
But to Hector's lug delighted came this message bright and blest —
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
The assemblage was a brilliant one, for Deakin, silver-tongued,
Had come to loose his oratory thrilling,
They hiccoughed Gord-Save-Edward with a chorus leather-lunged,
What time the loyal liquor they were swilling.
They speeched of silver kinships, and of hands across the sea,
They preached the same old platitudes redundant.
For whenever there's a plenitude of amber eau-de-vie,
Cronk sentiment is equally abundant;
They boasted how the Empire's Sons would rally round the Flag,
When Britain's drum reverberates and rapples,
But the ear of Cornthwaite Hector had no room for any gag
Than " Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
They were grown in boggy Boyanup, and washed by Darling dews,
They were picked by cockies' kiddies fat and freckled,
Who little thought they'd ever mix with Nedward's banquet booze,
When the Royal chef a score of flunkies heckled.
They were shipped aboard a liner with the butter and the beef,
For weeks they heard the engine's diapason,
Till they reached where London's swindle-shark and market-rigging thief
Rubs ribs with West Australia's only Rason.
They graced the Royal blow-out where the loyal speakers wreathed,
His pappycock and persiflage and papples,
Till in Cornthwaite Hector's listener Ned the Seventh softly breathed,
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples."
Little thought old sleepy Boyanup, of whom the world scarce heard,
Where the poddy-calf pursues its mooing mummy,
That the product of its orchard would in London be interred
In a real, live, reigning, Royal Monarch's tummy,
Little thought the cockies' kiddies, who each morn the moo-cow drain
Of milk that nearer blue than creamy-white is,
That the apples they'd exported would in time allay the pain
In a British Sovereign's paunch appendicitis,
Little thought they that an apple-core from Boyanup serene,
Might put Royalty to sleep in storied chapels,
Little thought our Agent-General would hear with blushing mien —
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
But supposing, just supposing, that the fruit from Boyanup
Upset the weak digestion of King Neddy,
Imagine how the household would be telephoning up
To get the surgeon's apparatus ready,
Imagine Alexandra mixing mustard in a pan
To put upon the Monarch's Little Mary,
Imagine how her feet would feel as round about she ran,
In a nightie rather delicate and airy;
It isn't very cosy to be wakened from a dream,
When the cold, grey dawn the Eastern darkness dapples,
While a King in fruit-convulsions mutters through the poultice-steam —
" Blast you, Mr Rason, and your apples!"
The banquet was a bonza, a rare recherche feed,
Every item there was up-to-date and swagger,
From the appetizing oysters to the coffee and the weed,
When the guests had waded through the Royal jagger.
There were squatters from the Sydneyside and butter kings from Vic.,
Lack of space, alone, from naming them prevents us;
But the proudest pea of all who lapped the pale Imperial shick
Was Rason, who in London represents us.
The King was kind and courteous, and had grins for every guest,
With that tactfulness that always grips and grapples,
But to Hector's lug delighted came this message bright and blest —
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
The assemblage was a brilliant one, for Deakin, silver-tongued,
Had come to loose his oratory thrilling,
They hiccoughed Gord-Save-Edward with a chorus leather-lunged,
What time the loyal liquor they were swilling.
They speeched of silver kinships, and of hands across the sea,
They preached the same old platitudes redundant.
For whenever there's a plenitude of amber eau-de-vie,
Cronk sentiment is equally abundant;
They boasted how the Empire's Sons would rally round the Flag,
When Britain's drum reverberates and rapples,
But the ear of Cornthwaite Hector had no room for any gag
Than " Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
They were grown in boggy Boyanup, and washed by Darling dews,
They were picked by cockies' kiddies fat and freckled,
Who little thought they'd ever mix with Nedward's banquet booze,
When the Royal chef a score of flunkies heckled.
They were shipped aboard a liner with the butter and the beef,
For weeks they heard the engine's diapason,
Till they reached where London's swindle-shark and market-rigging thief
Rubs ribs with West Australia's only Rason.
They graced the Royal blow-out where the loyal speakers wreathed,
His pappycock and persiflage and papples,
Till in Cornthwaite Hector's listener Ned the Seventh softly breathed,
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples."
Little thought old sleepy Boyanup, of whom the world scarce heard,
Where the poddy-calf pursues its mooing mummy,
That the product of its orchard would in London be interred
In a real, live, reigning, Royal Monarch's tummy,
Little thought the cockies' kiddies, who each morn the moo-cow drain
Of milk that nearer blue than creamy-white is,
That the apples they'd exported would in time allay the pain
In a British Sovereign's paunch appendicitis,
Little thought they that an apple-core from Boyanup serene,
Might put Royalty to sleep in storied chapels,
Little thought our Agent-General would hear with blushing mien —
" Thank you, Mr Rason, for the apples!"
But supposing, just supposing, that the fruit from Boyanup
Upset the weak digestion of King Neddy,
Imagine how the household would be telephoning up
To get the surgeon's apparatus ready,
Imagine Alexandra mixing mustard in a pan
To put upon the Monarch's Little Mary,
Imagine how her feet would feel as round about she ran,
In a nightie rather delicate and airy;
It isn't very cosy to be wakened from a dream,
When the cold, grey dawn the Eastern darkness dapples,
While a King in fruit-convulsions mutters through the poultice-steam —
" Blast you, Mr Rason, and your apples!"