The Scottish Hospital

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 physical injury.

He goes to examine the first man he sees, and the man proclaims:
"Fair fa' yer sonsie face, Great chieftan o' the pudding race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, painch tripe or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' grace as lang's my arm."

The Englishman, somewhat taken a back, goes to the next patient,
who immediately launches into:
"Some hae meat, and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it,
bit we hae meat and we can eat, and sae the Lord be thank it."

And suddenly the next patient sits up and declaims.
"Wee slekit cow'rin tim'rous beastie,
O what a panic's in they breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi' bickering brattle.
 I wad be faith to run and chase thee, wi' murddering 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. . .

(wait for this...!)

"This is the Serious Burns Unit."