Sir Noël Cow­ard: play­wright, com­pos­er, direc­tor, actor and singer, known for his wit, flam­boy­ance, debonair charm and what Time mag­a­zine called “a sense of per­son­al style, a com­bi­na­tion of cheek and chic, pose and poise”. We’ve met Cow­ard before in this blog, due to his involve­ment with Brief Encounter. His songs have amused and charmed me for years: wit­ty and know­ing word­play, pre­cise­ly enun­ci­at­ed and put togeth­er with an extra­or­di­nary degree of scan­sion and uni­ty, and often with a killer title: Don’t Let’s Be Beast­ly To The Ger­mans, Could You Please Oblige Us with a Bren Gun?, I Went To A Mar­vel­lous Par­ty…

Typ­i­cal of his glo­ri­ous­ly sar­don­ic songcraft, is this week’s glimpse of the sub­lime, Don’t Put Your Daugh­ter On The Stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton. In the Thir­ties, at the height of his pow­ers, Cow­ard was apt to receive a con­stant stream of let­ters from women beg­ging him to find parts for their respec­tive daugh­ters in what­ev­er he hap­pened to be stag­ing next. As Cow­ard him­self put it:

“Some years ago when I was return­ing from the Far East on a very large ship, I was pur­sued around the decks every day by a very large lady. She showed me some pho­tographs of her daugh­ter – a repel­lent-look­ing girl – and seemed con­vinced that she was des­tined for a great stage career. Final­ly, in sheer self-preser­va­tion, I locked myself in my cab­in and wrote this song – “Don’t Put Your Daugh­ter On The Stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton”.

The slap­down is exquis­ite. Enjoy its deft lyrics and jaun­ty tune, below. How­ev­er, you won’t hear the fourth verse because this was pulled from the song as it was con­sid­ered by the Lord Cham­ber­lain too offen­sive for the prim 1930s Britain!

Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage,
The pro­fes­sion is over­crowd­ed
And the strug­gle’s pret­ty tough
And admit­ting the fact
She’s burn­ing to act,
That isn’t quite enough.
She has nice hands, to give the wretched girl her due,
But don’t you think her bust is too
Devel­oped for her age?
I repeat
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Sweet
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage.

Regard­ing yours, dear Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Of Wednes­day the 23^rd,
Although your baby
May be,
Keen on a stage career,
How can I make it clear,
That this is not a good idea.
For her to hope,
Dear Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Is on the face of it absurd,
Her per­son­al­i­ty
Is not in real­i­ty
Invit­ing enough,
Excit­ing enough
For this par­tic­u­lar sphere.

Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage,
She’s a bit of an ugly duck­ling
You must hon­est­ly con­fess,
And the width of her seat
Would sure­ly defeat
Her chances of suc­cess,
It’s a loud voice, and though it’s not exact­ly flat,
She’ll need a lit­tle more than that
To earn a liv­ing wage.
On my knees,
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Please
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage.

Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage,
Though they said at the school of act­ing
She was love­ly as Peer Gynt,
I’m afraid on the whole
An ingénue role
Would empha­size her squint,
She’s a big girl, and though her teeth are fair­ly good
She’s not the type I ever would
Be eager to engage,
No more buts,
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
NUTS,
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage.

[Song nor­mal­ly ends here, but here’s the refrain that fell foul of the Cen­sor]

Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage, Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage,
One look at her bandy legs should prove
She has­n’t got a chance,
In addi­tion to which
The son of a bitch
Can nei­ther sing nor dance,
She’s a vile girl and ugli­er than mor­tal sin,
One look at her has put me in
A tear­ing bloody rage,
That suf­ficed
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Christ!
Mrs Wor­thing­ton,
Don’t put your daugh­ter on the stage, or your son!