My favourite Burns Night joke:
A Scots physician was showing an English colleague around a Scottish hospital. At the end of his visit, he was shown to a unit filled with people with no obvious injury.
The Englishman goes to examine the first man he sees who proclaims:
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm,
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace.
Taken somewhat aback the Englishman goes to the next man who 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.
This continues with the third patient:
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!
"Well," mutters the Englishman to his Scots colleague, "I see you saved the psychiatric ward for last."
"Och, no," replied the Scottish doctor, "this is the Serious Burns unit."
*snickers*