3. Féinn of Breatan: Breatan was the southern districts of Scotland, Dunbreatan, or Dumbarton, being the principal seat. 4. Féinn of Lochlin: These according to Tacitus, dwelt on the right shore of the Suevic Sea, or the Baltic, and were called the Aestii. There are some evidences which indicate that the last also were a Celtic people, who spoke a Celtic language. The inhabitants of this district now form part of the Kingdom of Prussia. It is the Féinn of Albin and of Erin that the heroic lays generally celebrate. Trenmor, the fifth from Baoisgne, from whom Finn and his followers were called Clanna Baoisgne, was general of the Féinn; Cumhal, his son, was the father of Finn. Oisein, Fergus, Raoidhne, or Rayne, and Cairol were the sons of Finn. Oscar, the son of Oisein, was his grandson; and Diarmad was his nephew, who eloped with his queen, Gràine, daughter of Cormac Mac Art, King of Ireland, A.D. 227. Caoilte, or Cailt, was a relative; and Goll, or Gaul, Conan, and Garaidh were chiefs of the Clann Morna. But the heroes, one after another, soon disappeared. The theme of several of the principal ballads is the deaths of Oscar, Diarmad, Gaul, &c., and lastly, of Ossian himself, who was left alone of all that noble band of heathen heroes. In his last days the blind old bard came in contact with some Christian Patrick, and dialogues of their discussions were for ages repeated in Highland ballads. The following ballad, entitled the “Sweetest Sound,” is a specimen of the less martial kind:— Once when the kindly feast was spread On Almhin’s golden slope, The bards they sang of bliss and woe, Despair, and love, and hope. And heroes, as they drained the bowl, With joy or sadness heard; For those good harpers as they pleased Men’s rising feelings stirred. Lord of the feast there Fingal sat— His fair hair touched with grey— Near his first son, the warrior bard, Strong as the noon of day. The good MacLuy there conversed With Oscar, young and bright, And bald head Conan, rash and bold, Who never shunned the fight. And Diarmad there sat, beautiful, And rolled his eye of blue, When Fingal spoke, and all the board His regal question knew. “Come, tell me now, my chieftains good, At Fingal’s feast who be, What sounds are they that form for each The sweetest harmony? “What are the notes that charm you most, And send your cares to flight— What sound most charms your inmost core, And thrills you with delight?” The Conan—the rash Conan spoke— Of all that company The first to speak, the first to fight— The last to think was he. “The rattling dice I love the most, When the play is running high; And my coming chances strain my ear, And almost blind my eye.”