An English doctor is being shown around a Scottish hospital. Towards the end of his visit he is shown into a ward with several beds, whose occupants seem to have no obvious signs of injury. But as he approaches the first bed, the patient 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.”

Being somewhat taken aback, he goes to the next patient and is immediately greeted with:

“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!”

He quietly asks the doctor accompanying him if they have unexpectedly entered the psychiatric ward. “Och, Nay,” replies his guide; “this is the serious Burns unit.”