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 another 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."

Well, I know you're supposed to groan at a pun, but when they're funny I laugh. I had to laugh at this one.

I've been plagued my whole life by those curmudgeons who claim that "Punning is the lowest form of wit."

I was delighted a few years ago to learn Oscar Wilde's rejoinder to this sort of charge:

"That's funny -- I thought cliche was..."

It's an oldie but a goodie. A few others I sometimes throw in at Burns suppers:

They've asked me to address this haggis but I've no idea where to send it.

The haggis this year is very runny. It has to be piped in.

Jean Armour was the love of his life. She was perfect for him. Her surname rhymed with "farmer".

Porridgeface