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 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, who
immediately 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."
And suddenly the next patient sits up and declaims. "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," said the Englishman to his Scottish colleague, "I see you saved the
psychiatric ward for the last."
"Nay, nay," the Scottish doctor corrected him, "This is the Serious Burns
Unit."
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