[at-l] It's Burn's Night! (OT, Scots humour)

[Snodrog5@xxxxxxx (Snodrog5@xxxxxxx)]

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[ Picked text/plain from multipart/alternative ]
Tonight marks the anniversary of Robert Burn's birth,
so I'm passing along a wee bit of Scot's humour.
Lift a glass o' cheer around the campfire t'night my friends! :O)
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A newly qualified doctor arrives for his first day at a hospital, deep in the
Welsh valleys. He is met by one of the sisters, who has been given the task
of showing him around the hospital and introducing him to the staff and
patients.

It is a large hospital and it takes the whole day to get round. By late
afternoon they are working their way through the psychiatric block and as the
time approaches for the evening meal they arrive at the last ward. They
follow the dinner trolley into the ward and wait while one of the nurses
lifts the lid on the food tray. To the doctor's surprise there is but a
single haggis on the tray to feed a whole ward.

One of the patients moves towards the trolley in a purposeful manner
addressing the haggis,

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

Before he can reach the haggis another patient sprints forward, grabs the
simple repast and dashes up the ward. He proudly holds the haggis aloft and
cries out in a commanding voice,

Some hae meat and cannae eat.
Some cannae eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

At this, a kilted dervish leaps from his bed, whips a skien dubh out of his
sock and lunges at the haggis carrier. With a deft movement the haggis bearer
fend off the flashing blade with the haggis. Although this prevents any
injury it does result in the top of the haggis being hacked off. A small
mouse obviously waiting upon this event dashes out from under a bed, grabs
the loose piece of haggis and scampers up the ward, running the gauntlet of
slashing claymores and hurled dirks from various patients. At the end of the
ward stands a bent and wizened old man with a wild fire in his eyes. He
screams at the mouse,

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 rin an chase thee,
Wi murdering pattle!

And then dives upon the poor little mouse. With a left dummy and a right
feint, the mouse dodges between the old man's legs, through a hole in the
skirting board and to safety with his prize. The doctor turns to the sister
and asks, "Why is this psychiatric ward so full of Scotsmen?"

"Oh no, doctor, these are not Scotsmen, they are genuine valley dwellers born
and bred", she replies, "and, anywa, this is not a psychiatric ward, it is
the serious Burns unit"