In the Scottish Hospital

An Eng­lish­man is being shown around a Scot­tish hos­pi­tal. Towards the end of his vis­it, he is shown into a ward with a num­ber of peo­ple who show no obvi­ous signs of injury.

He speaks to the first man he sees and the man pipes up: “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 aq pan­ic’s in thy breast­ie! Thou need not start awa sae hasty, Wi bick­er­ing brat­tle I wad be laith to run and chase thee, Wi mur­der­ing pattle!”

The Eng­lish­man turns to the doc­tor accom­pa­ny­ing him on the vis­it and asks what sort of ward this is—a psy­chi­atric ward?

“No, No,” replies the doc­tor, “It’s the seri­ous Burns unit.” 

(author unknown)

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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