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.”