An Englishman is being shown around a Scottish hospital.
At the end of his visit, he is shown into a ward with a number of patients who show no obvious signs of injury. He goes to examine the first man he sees, and the man proclaims:
Fair fa' yer honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain e' the puddin' race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
painch tripe or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
as lang's my arm.
The Englishman, somewhat taken aback, goes to the next patient, and immediately the patient launches into:
Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
This continues with the next patient:
Wee sleekit cow'rin tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
wi' bickering brattle.
I wad be laith to run and chase thee,
wi' murdering prattle!"
"Well," the Englishman mutters to his Scottish colleague, "I see you saved the psychiatric ward for the last."
"Nay, nay," the Scottish doctor corrected him, "this is the Burns unit."