The following are some poems and songs written down through the years.
Dohenys 1966 - (Air: Boys of Kilmichael)
Twas Sunday, the Park it was crowded,
As Dohenys met Grange in the fray,
The fears of North Cork were well founded,
For Dohenys were victors that day,
The roar as the whistle was sounded,
Could be heard over Dunmanway town,
The buzz of the phone gave the tidings,
To tell them the Grange boys went down.
Hurrah for the men of the west, boys,
The Dohenys, the pride of West Cork,
We'll never stop now 'till we play in The Polo Grounds out in New York.
We headed our convoy back homewards,
West, to a fast sinking sun,
And history will tell it with glory,
How the '66 final was won,
Then here's to the men of Dunmanway,
That wee town way out in the west,
Where spirit and football were born,
We still show the way to the rest.
The music, the bonfires ablazing,
To welcome our heroes back home,
The Grange boys were good but remember,
The Dohenys are out on their own
1935 - Dunmanway v Mitchelstown
A welcome to our heroes,
triumphant home once more,
Mitchelstown is vanquished
and Dohenys to the fore,
You fought the battle nobly,
so everybody says,
And Dohenys yet unborn will sing
proudly of your praise.
Then a cheer for Willie Grainger
though many miles away, Hennessy,
Crowley, Whelton, and sprightly Ned Dullea,
Brave and gallant Murray
from the Curragh of Kildare,
Not forgetting for a moment,
good old fairhead from the Square.
Willie Fair and Mick O'Driscoll
who fought with leaps and bounds,
And the two McCarthy brothers
from outside the "City" bounds,
All went into battle
to fight until they'd die,
Like Danny Rick, and Crowley Meara,
some forty years ago.
Hurray, well done, ye fought and won,
Dohenys hold the sway,
Ye are the County Champions,
St. Annes just bars the way,
But when the chance will offer
and when the whistle sounds,
Ye will show them what ye're made of
in the Cork Athletic Grounds.
When Ireland bled at tyrants' heel,
And men are hunted down,
And through each glen the rifle peal
Oft' answered Britain's frown.
You laughed to scorn the tyrants' wrath,
Your heart with love afire,
And nobly trod the danger path
God rest you Sam Maguire.
The Gaelic heart refused to beat,
In foreign captive chains,
It never can admit defeat
As long as truth remains.
In Ireland's cause you nobly worked,
With zeal that could not tire.
In life and death, in every breath,
You're Irish Sam Maguire.
Perhaps some bard may frame a lay
More suiting far than mine,
As Ireland wakes, now has dawned the day
Of liberty sublime.
Then let him tell of one who fell
While toiling up still highter,
A Patriot among the few,
God rest you Sam Maguire.
The Doheny Football Club - (Air: The Boys of Wexford)
Dunmanway, you saw, palmy days, Ere
Hockey, Golf, Ping-pong Allured you from
your ancient ways To swell West-Britons throng.
Benighted town you then could claim
A valliant football team!
But now, to your undying shame,
Tis gone like last night's dream.
The Dohenys' unforgotten fame
Rang thro' old Munster then.
Shade of my sires! we lost your name
In milk-sops' games for men
Is there a single vital spark
Of Celtic spirit here,
E'en one old charcteristic mark
Unblurred by shameful fear?
If so, to Gaelic pastimes lend
Your patronage and aid.
On you your native games depend,
As in you they decayed.
Arise! your ancient sports redeem
At the Irish Ireland dawn,
Revive your Gaelic Football team
And cling to the Caman.
Those whom no gleams of pride inspire
At the glory which they brought
On our old town, when, all afire,
They for Dunmanway fought
Have only now to follow me
In these few lines I write,
To see their claims can't hollow be
Behold their trophies bright:-
The Munster Champions 'neath them came,
So high was their renown!
Content not with the County's fame,
They grasped the triple crown.
I well recall that glorious day
When the championship they won-
The light of Kanturk paled away
Before their rising sun.
Ballinhassig its glory found
On their colours, white and green
Its rugged hills did oft resound
When your sons had victors been,
But many dreary years have sped,
Dohenys team went down,
To sleep in that time-honoured bed
Of glory and renown.
Tis past, that long and lonesome sleep,
And you're awake once more
To rush West Cork up fame's high steep,
As oft you did before,
With spirit bold, 'gainst Sconini strong
As suit of twisted mail,
I hope to see you shine ere long
In the old games of the Gael,
Your Caman cut from the ash that drips
With the dew on Owen's crest;
Your fathers' language 'pon your lips,
Their spirit in your breast.
MICHAEL - Extract from An Muineachain, the local Gaelic League paper produced in Dunmanway in 1903