Chapter IV

As I sat musing what to say,
And how my verse to number,
Some elf in play passed by that way,
And sank my lids in slumber;
And on my sleep a vision stole,
Which I will put in metre,
Of Burns’s soul at the wicket-hole
Where sits the good Saint Peter.

V.

The saint, methought, had left his post
That day to Holy Willie,
Who swore, “Each ghost that comes shall toast
In brunstane, will he, nill he;
There’s nane need hope with phrases fine
Their score to wipe a sin frae;
I’ll chalk a sign, to save their tryin',--
A hand (☟) and '_Vide infra!_'”