His team gave everything last night but, ultimately, maxi­mum effort came at a cost of composure -- and Scotland’s already flimsy World Cup prospects -- going out the window. Amid this rousing, passionate punt at the improbable, up popped Eljero Elia, the Netherlands’ second-half substitute and next big thing, to enforce a sobering reality.

What a night this threatened to be for Burley. Battered from pillar to post throughout the chaotic Group 9 campaign, he saved his best creation for what will probably prove his last game. Not even the most hardened cynic would begrudge him credit for the sheer defiance of last night’s endeavours. Scotland peppered Michel Vorm with prime chances but encountered a supposedly fallible back-up goalkeeper experiencing the kind of utopia normally contained within the coffee shops of Amsterdam.

Scotland had their own inspired replacement. David Marshall erased the memory of Oslo with a defiant performance, saving from Arjen Robben at point-blank range and looking no less penetrable than Craig Gordon. Alas, Elia had his measure.

Scotland’s fate was sealed before last night, their exit caused by calamities in Skopje and Oslo. Burley almost pulled off a heroic repair job. He eschewed perceived wisdom of the national limitations by taking on the pioneers of Total Football at their own game. He matched their 4-3-3 until such times as Scotland’s need for a goal became urgent, adding a fourth attacker in place of Paul Hartley with 25 minutes to go. There would be no glorious finale. Instead, from an innocuous long ball, David Weir craned his neck, his legs creaking, and the 39-year-old could only send a header straight to Elia.

It was a cruel and savage blow. There will be no World Cup and not even the promise of a play-off. The only issue still to be resolved is what fate will befall Burley. He is almost certain to depart but can do so with his head held high and his credentials salvaged from the debris of Cameron House and the other debacles that have punctuated his 18 months in charge.

The sight of Steven Naismith scampering around the field encapsulated the kernel of Burley’s coaching expertise. Here we had an enigmatic and injury-blighted Rangers player with seven minutes of inter- national experience to his name -- against the Faroe Islands, at that -- flung in as an unlikely hero. The inclusion raised eyebrows, and invited predictable scorn, but it worked a treat. Giovanni van Bronckhorst, a defender in name only, did not know what to make of this blond will-o-the-wisp.

Kenny Miller again had one of those nights when his work- rate was superior to his execution. He is a striker who somehow has prospered with the fundamental lack of a striker’s instinct; like a tennis player possessing every shot but a serve. He did not so much spurn Scotland’s two gilt-edged chances as encounter a goalkeeper with arms and legs like spaghetti. Even when Vorm was beaten, the crossbar betrayed this ever-willing workhorse.

Darren Fletcher exerted the authority of three men -- namely the absent pillars of Gordon and James McFadden -- but was again reminded of the chasm in quality between his Manchester United mates and his Scotland buddies.

Let us not romanticise last night’s stellar shift. The Nether­lands, who had already qualified at a canter, were content to toy with their inferior opponents but when the hosts got too big for their boots, they would be slapped back down to size. This was the ultimate game of cat and mouse. The Dutch arrived in playful mood and seemed intrigued by the resistance shown by their game fodder.

Scotland strode out amid a particularly belting atmo­sphere. Not even the late news of Craig Gordon’s injury could dampen the Tartan Army’s enthusiasm. They had been whipped up into a frenzy all day: radio stations clogged with Caledonian anthems and even the SFA’s outgoing PR officer posting a YouTube video of Al Pacino’s rousing team talk in Any Given Sunday on his Facebook page.

It was a day for celebration regardless of the result for Wullie Burley, the Scotland manager’s father. How the old man must have sympathised the gamut of emotions experienced by his son, a lonely but assured figure in the technical area.

Fears over an Italy-style early spearing threatened to be realised. Claus Bo Larsen, the Danish referee, did not so much blow his whistle as let off the starting gun for the ominously hyped-up Dutch. From their first move, involving Van Bronckhorst and an impudent Wesley Sneijder, Dirk Kuyt slapped Marshall’s left-hand post before the deputy goalkeeper had even enjoyed his first touch.

As well as the gulf in world ranking and technique, there was a more tangible physical disparity. Scotland lined up like kids going to the big school for the first time, with the obvious exception of the Heedie, Weir. Launching the ball aerially towards Naismith seemed an odd ploy but it succeeded in confusing Van Bronckhorst. It was one of the many minor battles won by Burley, whose attempts to instil calm and concentration from the sideline made him appear like a hyperactive yoga instructor.

The Netherlands’ danger was clear and present and in vibrant orange. The capa­bilities of Robin van Persie, Kuyt, Robben et al are known to all but the most ignorant football follower. The prodigious, piston-like properties of Gregory van der Wiel, Ajax’s latest wunderkind, or the effortless efficiency of his team-mate, Demy de Zeeuw, are less heralded but no less important to Van Marwijk’s grand plan.

Scotland quickly resolved their silent but communal conundrum of trying to avoid a savage blow but, at the same time, pose a potent threat to the untried Vorm. It was just Scotland’s luck that the apparently dodgy Utrecht goalkeeper had an inspired night.

With Hartley dashing around like a hacked-off D’Artagnan, Brown in typically irreverent form and Fletcher majestically inheriting the burden left by the absences of Gordon and McFadden, hope was a work in progress.

There were heart-stopping moments: Stephen McManus’ mind-boggling square pass straight to Robben; Sneijder’s unsubtle warning shot after Scotland dared to be adventurous and, most worryingly of all, Robben’s dart clean through. The danger was snuffed out with various degrees of desperation but, to their credit, Scotland responded gallantly.

The second half followed a similar theme: Scotland willed themselves upfield but their efforts stopped just short of Vorm’s goal; the Netherlands slapping them down for such cheek.

Robben was the beneficiary of Miller’s recklessness in possession, the winger flying past Hutton -- no mean feat -- cutting inside and positioning himself to kill off a country’s aspirations. Thankfully, Marshall was again the saviour.

Scotland sprayed shots at Vorm and despite Burley’s late spin of the roulette wheel, it was the introduction of Elia that made the material difference. Now we will face the fall-out before the inevitable clear-out.