Fionn, the father of Oisin, was the great commander of the Irish Feine, a standing army elected from all parts of the country, and invested with privileges which made it almost a kingdom within a kingdom. Individually, he belonged to the Feine of Leinster, the celebrated “Baoigne Clan.” Alarmed by the regal attributes assumed by Fionn, all the provincial kings of Ireland banded themselves together against him, and the battle of Gahbra, near Tara, in Meath, was fought, A.D. 286. In that battle almost all the chiefs of both sides perished, including Oscar, Oisin’s son, who commanded the Feine. Oscar is always represented as the gentlest, not less than the bravest of the Feine--the Hector of the Irish Troy. Fionn and Oisin flourished, despite these poetic disputations, nearly two centuries before the time of Saint Patrick! Some have supposed, accordingly, that the Patrick of the Ossianic poems was some precursor of the Irish apostle. But the chronological discrepancy would probably have proved no counterweight to the strength of that instinct which made the national imagination insist on connecting the heroic with the saintly period of Ireland. A theme full of pathos and interest was presented by the blind old warrior bard, divided between his devotion to his father and his son on the one hand, and his reverence, on the other, for the teachers of the better faith--between old affections and new convictions--patriotic recollections and religious hopes. I. THE CONTENTION OF OISIN WITH PATRICK.[55] [FROM ANCIENT IRISH SOURCES.] When Patrick the faith to Oisin had preached, He believed, and in just ways trod; Yet oft for old days he grieved, and thus Stormed oft at the saint of God. “Woe, woe, for the priestly tribe this hour 186 On the Feine Hill have sway! Glad am I that scarce their shapes I see; Half-blind am I this day. “Woe, woe, thou Palace of Cruachan! Thy sceptre is down and thy sword, The chase goes over thy grassy roof, And the monk in thy courts is lord! “Thou man with the mitre and vestments broad, And the bearing of grave command, Rejoice that Diarmid this day is dust! Right heavy was his clinched hand! “Thou man with the bell! I rede thee well, Were Diorraing living this day, Thy book he would take, and thy bell would break On the base of yon pillar gray! “Thou man with miraculous crosier-staff, Though puissant thou art, and tall, Were Goll but here, he would dash thy gear In twain on thy convent wall!