The portrait is excellent:

A snow white head a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With master reynard's brush.

A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learn'd it from:
His age about three-score and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.

They start--

But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
Branched off from all the rest.

Then comes the motley mob--

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers, in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butcher's hacks,